Gass 3 %£\p 9 
Book .• 



I 



FURTHER PAGES 
OF MY LIFE 



Photo H. Dixon &" Son] [Frontispiece 
THE RT. REV. W. BOYD CARPENTER, LORD BISHOP OF RIPON 

{From the painting by H. G. Riviere) 



FURTHER PAGES 
OF MY LIFE 



BY THE 

RIGHT REV. W. BOYD CARPENTER 

W 

K.C.V.O., D.D., D.C.L., D.LITT. 

Sub-Dean and Canon of Westminster, and Clerk of the Closet 
to H.M. the King, and formerly Bishop of Ripon 

AUTHOR OF 

'SOME PAGES OF MY LIFE,' 4 THE WITNESS OF RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE,' ETC. 



WITH PORTRAITS AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



NEW YORK 
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

597-599 FIFTH AVENUE 
1917 



Printed in Great Britain by 
Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, 
brunswick st., stamford st., s.e.. 
and bungay. suffolk. 



V*7 



m: \ : ■ 

PREFACE 

These pages are only reflections mingled with remi- 
niscences. I have written them without other thought than 
of recording frankly and honestly things as they were or, 
rather, as they seemed to me. There are things written here 
which touch on intimate parts of my life — which I shrank 
from recording, but which nevertheless the unappeasable 
gratitude of my heart urged me to write lest any should 
think that what is long past has been forgotten. Those who 
know me will understand. To those who do not, I would 
say that love is the supreme educator of souls, and life without 
love is destitute of meaning. Realizing this, I think that 
they, too, will understand. 

The chapter which speaks of the late much-loved King 
contains the substance of an article which appeared in the 
Nineteenth Century and Afterwards in 1910, and which 1 am 
allowed by the kindness of the Editor to make use of here. 

For the rest, 1 can only say that life, which for me is 
drawing to its close, has been, as I said in a previous 
volume, full of interest ; and that which establishes its interest 
is the conviction that this life is but a schoolroom life, in 
which Love is teaching us how to love, that we may feel at 
home among those who have learnt to love. 



V 



3n Aemorfam 



A. M. C. 

Una Donna soletta, che si gia 
Cantando ed iscegliendo fior da fiore, 
Ond'era pinta tutta la sua via. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

PREFACE v 

FRAGMENTS OF SONG AND STORY i 

COUSINS AND BROTHER 15 

MY BROTHER HENRY . . . . . .. .25 

MY BEATRICE . . 35 

MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 44 

VILLA LUCAS OR PRANGINS 75 

CLERICAL PECCADILLOES 84 

SKETCHES OF PARSONS WITH A MORAL . .112 

HOLBECK JUNCTION . 131 

MR. MILLWRIGHT . . . . . . .137 

GOOD FRIDAY . . . . . . . . .142 

FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDSHIP 164 

F. W. ROBERTSON . . . . . . . .178 

J. HENRY SHORTHOUSE. ..... 204 

MY HOURS OF SICKNESS 218 

WAR MEMORIES 221 

KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH . . . . .239 

THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 263 

THE GREATER FRIENDSHIP ...... 295 

INDEX . , 315 

vii 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



THE RT. REV. W. BOYD CARPENTER . Frontispiece 
From the painting by H. G. Riviere. 

HARRIET CHARLOTTE BOYD CARPENTER To face page 64 / 

A "BEAU" DRAWN— AT A VENTURE . . „ 218/ 

"THE GOOD BRAVE MAN HIS DUTY DID" „ 220 ' 

BROAD BASED UPON THE PEOPLE'S WILL „ 222 

OH ! FOR THE TOUCH OF A VANISHED 

HAND „ 224/ 

The above four illustrations are reproduced from water-colour 
drawings by the Author. 



MY CHAPLAINS, 191 1 . . . . . „ 294 



THE AUTHOR „ 304 ✓ 

From a photograph by Lafayette. 



viii 



FURTHER PAGES OF 
MY LIFE 



FRAGMENTS OF SONG AND STORY 

I wonder whether friends interested in traditional lore 
can help me to recover the original versions of some 
songs and carols which float — incomplete, alas ! — in my 
memory from very early days. I transport myself back in 
thought — well-nigh seventy years. It is winter, and the 
dark, cold days are bringing Christmas nearer. We hear 
the shuffle of uncertain feet on the pavement outside the 
house ; there is a pause, and then children's voices are 
raised in carol and song. I can only set down the carol 
imperfectly, and I do so in the hope that some one better 
qualified than I may be able to tell us whence it comes, and 
perhaps give it in its entirety. We only heard it imper- 
fectly : indeed, I am not sure that the children who sang 
it knew more than a fragment of the original ; but clearly 
the original must have been some metrical version of an 
imaginary or apocryphal incident in our Lord's infant life. 
The words which fell upon our ears, as I remember them, 
were these — 

B 



2 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



" He went down, he went down, 
To yonder little town 
As far as the old oak-tree, 
And there he met some boys and girls 
And said, * Will you play with me ? ' 
* O no ! O no!' said these naughty little boyi, 
'We will not play with you.' 
So, crying, he ran 
To the Virgin Mary Ann, 
' They will not play with me.' " 

What more of this carol was sung I cannot recall ; but 
well I know that the singers always hurried on to the 
practical refrain, which hinted at the Christmas gratuity, 
and with loud voices they lustily sang as follows — 

"Now bless the master of this house, 
And bless the mistress true, 
And all the little children 
Around the table too — 
Your pockets full of money, and your cellars full of beer, 
And we wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year." 

So over and over again round the square these ditties 
were sung, and it may be taken for granted that the singers 
did not go home empty-handed. These fragments of 
Christmas greetings and songs are nothing ; but for a long 
time my curiosity, especially respecting the first, has been 
piqued, and it would be a satisfaction to meet with the carol 
in its complete form. 

Among songs which I heard when I was young, there 
was one which my Aunt Fanny (Mrs. Lawson) was fond 
of singing. I never saw it in print : it was only from her 
singing that I learnt it ; but here again I should like to 
trace it to its origin, and meet with it in a more perfect 



FRAGMENTS OF SONG AND STORY 3 



version than I can give. It was the narrative of a certain 
wily husband, whose home was in Yorkshire ; and the 
song went in this fashion — 

" Mr. Simpkins lived in Leeds, 

And he had a wife beside : t 
This wife she wore the breeches, 

So she often wished to ride. 
She asked him for a horse, 

And he yielded to her folly ; 
Said he, * I'm always mollified 
By you, my dearest Molly.' 

Tol de rol, de rol, etc. 

"This horse it had six legs, 
As I shall prove to you ; 
For when it raised its foreJegs 

Yet still it stood on two. 
Down tumbled Mrs. Simpkins ; 

Her loving spouse averred, 
' My Lamb's as dead as mutton, 
For she cannot speak a word.' 

Tol de rol, de rol, etc. 



" They put her in a coffin, 

And he bid them nail her fast ; 1 
And the funeral procession 

To the village church it passed. 
Said Simpkins to his neighbours, 

' I'll follow at my leisure, 
For why should I, my friends, 
Make a business of a pleasure ? ' 

Tol de rol, de rol, etc. 



" At night the resurrection man 
Determined the corpse to raise : 
He oped the coffin wide, 
And on the fair did gaze. 



4 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



The noise awoke the lady, 

' What brings you here ? ' she sighed, 
* With pick-axe, spade and shovel i* 

* Why axe about ? ' he cried. 

Tol de rol, de rol, etc. 

"Then up jumped Mrs. Simpkins, 
And to the stable hied, 
Where she saw her spouse caressing 

The beast by which she died. 
When in came neighbour Horner, 

Said he, * I'll buy that beast ; 
For perhaps he'll do for my wife 
What he did for the deceased.' 

Tol de rol, de rol, etc. 

" * O no ! ' said Mr. Simpkins, 

* I cannot take your pelf, 

For know, good neighbour Horner, 

I may want it for myself. 
I'm grateful to this creature, 

And if I wed again, 
Perhaps to its assistance 

I should not look in vain.' 

Tol de rol, de rol, etc. 

" Then in rushed Mrs. Simpkins 
And caught him by the hair ; 
' Disown your lawful wife now, 

You villain, if you dare ! 
I'm neither dead nor buried, 

And you thought to marry too (two) ; 
But now, my dearest husband, 
I'll live to bury you.' 

Tol de rol, de rol, etc. 

" Then off went neighbour Horner. 
Said he, * It is not fair 
To spoil the reconciling 
Of such a pretty pair/ 



FRAGMENTS OF SONG AND STORY 5 



But Simpkins kissed his loving wife, 
' I'm yours till death,' he cried ; 

* But when, my dearest dear, 
Will you take another ride ? * 

Tol de rol, de rol, etc." 

Here is a gruesome tale, which my dear old nurse, 
Mary Ann, used to tell us, and as she told us it thrilled 
us with the sense of mystery and marvel ; it seemed to 
open up to us the long and dark road of human wicked- 
ness, for it was the first story of crime and the conflict of 
courageous goodness with evil passion which we had heard. 

The story was in this wise. 

In a certain town — Chester, I think — there lived a 
domestic servant who, three nights running, dreamed the 
same dream. She dreamt that she was in Wrexham, a 
town with which, if I recollect aright, she had no con- 
nexion. In her dream she saw a house, and in the house 
a dark cellar-passage. In that passage she witnessed a deed 
of blood : a lad attacked by a man who bore a large knife 
in his hand ; there was a struggle, and in it the lad's hand 
was nearly severed from his arm, and then she saw the man 
burying his victim under a flagstone in the cellar. The 
thrice-repeated dream produced such a powerful impression 
upon her mind that she resolved to visit Wrexham and 
test the truth of her dream. According to the story, she 
was able to impress others, and to evoke such sympathy 
from the officials of the town that they permitted search to 
be made. Guided by the girl, the authorities went to the 
house : she led them to the cellar : she pointed out the 
flagstone which she had seen in her dreams. The flagstone 



6 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



was taken up, and beneath was found the body of a lad 
with one hand almost severed from his arm. The house 
in which the discovery was made was occupied by a 
surgeon-apothecary. Upon him naturally suspicion fell, 
and investigation brought out the following tragic tale. 

There dwelt in the town of Wrexham an old lady who 
had been for many years a very valuable patient of a 
doctor-apothecary who practised and prepared medicines 
for the inhabitants. This doctor-apothecary had an errand- 
boy, whose duty it was to carry the medicines out, and 
deliver them at the houses of the patients. This lad had 
an observant eye and a reflective mind. He therefore 
picked up knowledge in unexpected ways. He gained a 
fairly accurate knowledge of drugs and their properties, 
and knew more of what his master was doing than the 
master could have thought possible. The master, unaware 
of the vigilant eye of the lad, carried on his business, pre- 
pared the medicines, bottled them and sent them out, 
unmindful of the sharp and intelligent eyes of his errand- 
boy. 

There came a time when the death of the old lady 
would be more profitable to the apothecary than her life. 
Perhaps she had made a will under which he would benefit, 
but on this point the story was not explicit. As the 
apothecary saw, however, the opportunity of solid gain, he 
resolved not to lose it. Accordingly he made up for the 
old lady a bottle of medicine which contained poison. He 
fondly supposed that he only knew what he had done ; but 
the boy had observed him, and the boy knew as he carried 
the medicine to the old lady's house that he was carrying 



FRAGMENTS OF SONG AND STORY 7 



death to the door. Accordingly, on reaching the house, he 
asked and obtained permission to deliver the medicine in 
person to the lady. As he handed her the bottle he said, 
"Don't take any of it: it contains poison." Then he 
returned to the shop. 

A day or so afterwards the apothecary went to pay his 
usual visit to the old lady : naturally he had expected to 
hear of her death ; but on his arrival he was shown as 
usual to the old lady's room, and there she was, still alive 
and very alert. She looked steadily at the apothecary, and 
then drew from under her pillow the medicine bottle, with 
the medicine in it untouched. She told him that his wicked 
plan had failed, because a courageous and conscientious boy 
had given her warning. The apothecary returned home, 
and almost immediately sent the lad into the cellar to the 
store place. Stealthily he followed, armed with a knife ; 
and there in the dark passage he killed the lad, and be- 
neath the flagstones of the cellar he buried him. There 
had been some resistance on the lad's part, and in the 
course of the slight struggle the lad's hand was almost 
severed from his arm. 

All that remained to tell was the usual sequel. The 
apothecary's shop was closed, the premises were bought by 
an enterprising publican, who opened them as a public- 
house, and as an advertisement and enticement of custom, 
called his place of business The Bloody Hand. 

Such was the story, and it lost nothing in emphasis or 
impressiveness from little Mary Ann's telling of it. How 
she lowered her voice as the tragic climax was reached ; 
how her little dark eyes glowed as she described the courage 



8 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



of the boy, or the act of the old lady as she drew the tell- 
tale bottle from beneath her pillow. Truly the tale was 
vividly imprinted on our memories, and it left upon our 
minds an uncanny sense of human vindictiveness and of 
occult methods of just retribution. 

But I must not close this chapter with such an uncanny 
story ; it might suggest false conclusions ; it might be 
thought that my dear little Mary Ann delighted in nar- 
rating dismal and tragic tales. Her tone of mind was of 
another order : she was cheerful and shrewd-witted, and 
would rather encourage than depress the spirits. Here is 
a story much more characteristic of little Mary Ann's tale- 
telling art — 

Once upon a time there lived a farmer who began to 
meet with what looked like evil fortune. His farming did 
not prosper ; his crops were not as plentiful as once they 
were ; his cattle did not thrive ; the spirit of mischance 
seemed to hover over his farm. About this time a woman, 
who in some ages would have been a witch, and in others 
a wise woman, came round to the various houses in the 
neighbourhood and was received and consulted as one who 
could ensure good fortune and avert evil. She visited the 
farmer, and he, with many expressions of self-pity, narrated 
how trouble and loss appeared to dog his footsteps. 

The woman listened, and then she said : u I can tell 
you the way to good fortune. Do you see that cup ? " she 
asked, pointing to one of special pattern which hung on a 
nail on the dresser. "If you will take that cup to the 
spring and fill it, and drink it there every morning at six 
o'clock, good fortune will be yours/' 



FRAGMENTS OF SONG AND STORY 



The farmer, having trust in the woman's unearthly 
knowledge, resolved that he would put her counsel to the 
test. Taking the particular cup with him, which he now 
regarded with superstitious reverence, he rose early, visited 
the spring, drank the fresh sparkling water. For weeks 
and months he continued, having once commenced the 
habit ; and as the months went by, behold, his farm began 
to prosper. The wise woman had shown him that the way 
to success was in early rising and personal superintendence 
of his farm. His ill-fortune had sprung from indolent 
habits. Industry and hardihood of life changed failure to 
success. But ever after the farmer kept as a sacred symbol 
and highly prized treasure the cup with which he had 
learned to drink early draughts from the spring. 

In stories like this little Mary Ann distilled practical 
wisdom for us to remember and cherish. She did not know 
Thomson, but she taught us that — 

" Renown is not the child of indolent repose." 

Among tales and fragments of tales I may, perhaps, place 
this fragment of speeches heard in the street. I was walking 
down Duke Street, Liverpool, perhaps sixty years ago? 
perhaps more. At the corner was a man addressing a little 
group of people with all the earnestness of a Cheap Jack. 
He was trying to persuade the people to buy his wares, 
which, I suppose, were booklets or broadsheets, and can 
I be right in surmising that he was also selling playing 
cards ? At any rate, playing cards were his theme when 
I stopped to listen. His speech was on this wise : " Here 
is a pack of cards — your almanack and your Bible in 



io FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



one. It is your almanack : Fifty-two cards— fifty- two 
weeks in the year ; four suits — four seasons ; three hun- 
dred and sixty-five pips on the faces of the cards — three 
hundred and sixty-five days in the year. You tell me 
that I am wrong. Yes, I am wrong — there are three 
hundred and sixty-six pips, but that provides you for 
leap-year. The pack of cards is an almanack. It is a 
Bible also. I look at the ace, and it reminds me of the 
One God ; I look at the two, and it reminds me of the 
two natures in Christ ; I look at the three, and it reminds 
me of the Trinity ; I look at the king, and it reminds me 
of the King of kings, or you will think it better if I say 
it reminds me of Solomon, who was the wisest of kings ; 
I look at the queen, and it reminds me of the Queen of 
Sheba, who was as wise for a woman as he was for a man. 
When the Queen of Sheba came to visit Solomon she 
brought with her five hundred little boys and five hundred 
little girls, all dressed alike, and she asked Solomon to say 
which were the little boys and which were ' the little girls. 
For a time he was puzzled, then he called for water and 
told all the children to wash their hands, and then he was 
able to tell which were boys and which were girls, for the 
little boys washed their hands as far as their wrists, but all 
the little girls washed up to their elbows." 

Such was the gist of the Cheap Jack's discourse. More 
he said which I have forgotten, and probably a good deal 
more which I did not stay to hear ; but the exposition he 
gave of the use of a pack of cards stayed in my memory. His 
calculation of the value of the pips was quite correct — if all 
the court cards, including the ace, are reckoned as worth ten. 



FRAGMENTS OF SONG AND STORY u 



I may end this chapter with a story which points a 
moral. I shall first give the story. I shall then give the 
key which explains what seemed to many to be incredible. 
I shall then, after the fashion of my calling, point out the 
moral. The story, then, is this : One afternoon at the 
witching hour, when the drowsy air invites to seductive 
repose, an old lady was seated in her armchair, and the 
welcome influence of the rest-giving hour was upon her ; 
the door of the living-room was open, and the pleasant 
sunshine of the sleepy afternoon threw a lane of light down 
the two or three steps by which the house was entered, and 
spread a square patch of light across the kitchen floor. 
The house was on the lower side of the road which climbs 
from the city of Lancaster to the famous castle known as 
Lancaster Gaol. Suddenly the woman awoke from her 
half-slumbrous condition and beheld a startling apparition. 
Down the steps there came, bumping upon each step as 
it fell, a human head, and rolled into the middle of the 
kitchen. A further apparition appeared, the black and 
ghastly head was followed by a headless figure, draped in 
a long cloak ; it reached out from beneath the cloak an 
eager, clutching hand, while a voice as from a sepulchre 
cried, c< Where's my head ? Give me my head ! " The 
head was seized, the figure vanished, and the woman 
fainted. 

The neighbours found her and restored her to con- 
sciousness, and to them she told the tale. She declared 
that her husband's head came bumping and rolling into the 
kitchen (she had been married to a black man), and that the 
Devil had come and had carried it oft. The neighbours 



12 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



shook their heads and looked at one another with significant 
and incredulous gestures. The meaning of all was quite 
clear : the old lady had had a fit, and had dreamed or 
fancied this horror. They disbelieved the tale : they 
regarded the old lady as the victim of some hallucination. 
Common sense refused to believe such a gruesome and 
incredible tale ; but common sense was wrong, and the old 
lady was right in her facts, though wrong in her inference. 
Here is the key of the matter : After the Rugeley murder, 
scientific men showed some active interest in the formation 
of human skulls. Dr. William Palmer, the man who 
poisoned Mr. James Parsons Cook with strychnine, had a 
remarkable head, and a certain eminent man of science 
began to study the heads of criminals. The governor of 
Lancaster Gaol, with whom he was acquainted, knew that 
this man of science was studying heads, and wrote to tell 
him of a prisoner then in Lancaster Gaol — a negro — whose 
head was specially striking and peculiar. The prisoner, he 
said, was dangerously, and more than dangerously, ill, and 
was not likely to survive more than a day or two. If the 
man of science would like it, the governor added, he 
could perhaps allow him, after the man's death, to take 
away the head for examination. As such a thing, however, 
was against prison rules, the man of science must come 
to the gaol prepared to carry away the head with him. 
Accordingly the learned professor provided himself with a 
long cloak, appeared at the gaol, and at the proper moment 
received the ghastly burden. To save time and to avoid 
observation, he chose a short cut from the gaol to the 
town. Instead of following the winding of the slow, 



FRAGMENTS OF SONG AND STORY 13 



descending road, he took a path which cut across the 
curves of the road and shortened the distance. Such a 
short cut meant, of course, a more declivitous descent, and 
as fortune or fate would have it, when he emerged from the 
path to cross the road, he stumbled : the head slipped from 
his grasp, rolled away and reached an open door, and 
promptly fell down the steps at the entrance and disappeared 
into the cottage. There was only one thing to be done : 
the head must be rescued, and rescued with as much secrecy 
as possible. It would never do to run the risk of publicity 
and get the governor into trouble ! Therefore the professor 
acted with discreet rapidity : he drew his cloak over his 
head to conceal his face ; he dashed into the cottage to 
recover his precious burden, and in order to awe any one 
who might be there, he said in a sepulchral voice : 
" Where's my head ? Give me my head ! " as he seized 
his treasure and departed with it. The story was ex- 
plained ; facts were no longer incredible ; the old woman 
was substantially correct : the head had rolled down her 
steps into her cottage, and had been rescued by an 
apparently headless figure. 

And now for the moral. There is a shallow habit of 
rejecting stories as untrue because they contain some 
features which seem to be strangely improbable : we dub 
them as impossible : we dismiss them as dreams or crazy 
imaginings. In doing so we cut ourselves off from the 
pathway of truth ; a little more tolerance, a little more 
attention, followed by patient inquiry, may lead to some 
interesting discovery of fact or law. There is nothing so 
credulous as the scepticism which makes it a habit to reject 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



as valueless or false anything and everything which seems 
outside or contradictory of a few accepted and idolized 
laws. Such folk put on blinkers : they can only see what 
lies on the centre of the beaten track : their eyes never 
travel into the hedges and byways of life : their outlook is 
limited, and out of this glorified habit of narrowness there 
grows the old-fogeyism which cannot understand, still less 
accept, new ideas or fresh messages from new fields of 
inquiry. 

This obstinate attitude of mind was exemplified in my 
early experiences. A cousin of ours came to pay us a 
visit. She brought with her a boy about my own age. 
Like children, we were telling what we had seen, and in the 
course of doing so we told this boy that we had seen a 
train which travelled without a steam-engine. We were 
met with the vigorous rebuke : " Don't tell Balcram's lies." 
I don't know now and I didn't know then what Balcram 
meant, but we resented the sceptical attitude of this lad 
who made his own measure the limit of his intelligence. 
We had seen what he had not — the atmospheric railway 
which then plied between Kingstown and Dalkey in Ireland. 
The train travelled by atmospheric pressure, the air being 
liberated from a tube laid between the rails. The ignorant 
rudeness of the boy was a serviceable experience. It taught 
the same moral which I have tried to enforce as the lesson 
of the wandering head which terrified the old lady at 
Lancaster. 



COUSINS AND BROTHER 



Pagildeafilda ! 

We were all seated at lunch ; my father at the head, my 
mother at the foot of the table. The engravings of the 
Royal Irish Art Union hung round the room ; Turners 
" Ancient and Modern Italy " flanked Martin's picture of 
" The Opening of the Sixth Seal " ; over the chimneypiece 
was my father's portrait ; over the sideboard, which faced 
the tall window, was the " Irish Blind Girl at the Holy 
Well." The room had been still and quiet till, in answer 
to a question from my father, came the strange burst of 
unintelligible syllables — 

"Pagildeafilda." 

My father had said, " We expected to see you yester- 
day," and this was the reply. We all gazed at the speaker, 
blank wonder and perplexed questioning in our counte- 
nances. My father uttered a faint inquiry, u What ? " 
only to meet with a rapid reiteration of the enigmatic 
formula — 

« Pagildeafilda." 

We were puzzled ; this was a new language ; yet the 
speaker's absolute sincerity, and his complete conviction 
that he had uttered what was reasonable and sufficient, 
were obvious. 

15 



1 6 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



At last, after some further inquiry, the mysterious 
utterance became slowly elongated into intelligibility. c< Pa- 
gildeafilda " was an abbreviation, inarticulate and incoherent ; 
it stood for the specific announcement — 

"Pa gave me a half-holiday." 

Pagildeafilda — no, I am not going to give his name ; 
he had named himself. He was Pagildeafilda to us for 
many years to come. 

The circumstances were these : he was our cousin ; his 
parents lived in the country ; he was being educated at the 
Royal Institution School, and he often took lunch with us ; 
he was free to do so whenever he chose. One day he had 
failed to appear when he was expected. He explained by 
the inchoate reply, " Pagildeafilda." 

He was constantly with us at midday. Truth to speak, 
we deemed him somewhat of a bore. He had a tenacious 
affection for us, which we sometimes found inconvenient. 
He had few resources in himself, and he was prone, some- 
what incontinently, to associate himself with our pursuits 
or walks. Sometimes, with the hope of avoiding his 
company, we would announce some piece of duty which 
required our attention ; but promptly came the generous 
resolution, " I'll go with you." When he did come with 
us I am afraid that we walked very fast, wishing to shake 
him off ; but dear Pagildeafilda was too sociable ; he fol- 
lowed us, keeping, perhaps, a couple of feet behind us. 
Sociable ? yes, and garrulous too. Out of breath, he 
would entertain us with the relics of some good story, 
partially remembered and only half apprehended, and shot 
forth in incoherent portions, punctuated with gasps, and 



COUSINS AND BROTHER 



guffaws of laughter at intervals when no apparent humour 
marked the incompleted narrative. 

I am afraid that we were lacking in politeness ; but we 
were at the age when dogged affection and tenacious 
sociability did not appeal to us. Yet as I look back 1 can 
see that in the very qualities which bored us there lay the 
germs of that character which I learned to admire, love and 
respect in later years. Poor Pagildeafilda ! He had not 
great abilities ; his mental horizon was not wide ; his 
powers of intellectual assimilation were restricted ; but such 
qualities as he had were, if not improved with due care, 
yet allowed to grow into sterling qualities. He was, more- 
over, absolutely free from vanity or conceit ; he took up life 
as it came ; unquestioningly he accepted every task, it did 
not concern him to ask whether he liked it or disliked it ; 
he had never given rein to his fancy with regard to his 
pleasures or his talents ; he was unaware of either his prefer- 
ences or his capacities. He could enjoy ? Oh yes, he 
could join in the enjoyments which were proposed to him, 
and when he did so he genuinely enjoyed himself. He 
was a happy, selfless soul, made of the stuff out of which 
heroes are made, for he was ready for anything — duty, 
pleasure, difficulty, adventure, readily able to identify him- 
self with anything that was going on, and so, loyal to the 
idea of the moment. He was ready for anything — frolic or 
task, for anything except what was mean or dishonourable. 

Let me recall another scene. This time it is a country 
or semi-suburban house : it is Pagildeafilda's home. His 
mother, large and matronly, with a countenance severely 
motherly, i.e. stern by moods and benignant by desire, 



1 8 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



presides over the extensive tea-table, which is set for the large 
brood of sons and daughters, and nephews also, in a house 
as hospitable as it was populous. The mother beams upon 
her broodlets, but her especial smile is, I think, this night 
for my brother Henry, who is on the eve of his departure 
for Oxford. A general faith in my brother's genius pervades 
this homestead, and the happy confidence of an affectionate 
heart brings the smile of hopeful anticipation to my aunt's 
countenance. 

My brother Henry is in one of his lighter moods. 
Our cousin Robert, lame, but tirelessly energetic, is minis- 
tering to the wants of those about him. 

" Robert," says my brother, cc 1 hope you will write to 
me, and tell me how many lamp-posts you have pulled up." 

The ample teapot is in my aunt's hand ; it is lifted 
high to fill one of the numerous petitioning cups which are 
clustered on the tray. Suddenly the teapot sways hesitat- 
ingly, then it is replaced upon the tray with its immediate 
mission unfulfilled. An expression of dismay and horror 
passes over the hospitable face. 

" Robert," exclaims my aunt, " did you ever pull up a 
lamp-post ? " 

The question is asked in a tone of severe conviction, as 
though an awful truth had been suddenly brought to light. 
So solemn and accusing is the tone that a burst of laughter 
broke round the table. Immediately the horrified anxiety 
melted from my aunt's face ; perception of the joke irra- 
diated lips and eyes, and she joined in the merriment of 
the moment. 

No ! lamp-posts had not been pulled up, but lamps had 



COUSINS AND BROTHER 



19 



been turned out upon the dark road ; larks more or less 
sprightly had been played, as a handful of lads had scurried 
over country lanes : now stopping to converse with labourers 
in the field : now climbing some hill and gathering sticks to 
make up a hasty fire : now taking a lunch more ample than 
luxurious by the roadside, and following any quick fancy 
for mischief which sprang up within one of their restless 
brains. 

My memories of these expeditions are memories chiefly 
of cold ; for they were chiefly expeditions in the winter : the 
days were short, but we were out for long hours on frosty 
roads which grew slippery towards nightfall. The nights 
seemed as cold as the days, but the evenings indoors were 
warm enough ; for the evenings were devoted to lectures 
and charades. Our first lecture course was delivered under 
the auspices of an association (of ourselves) which called 
itself a Literary Society. 

The first of these lectures was given by my cousin 
Robert. The subject was Dr. Livingstone's travels in 
Africa. The literary level may be judged by one quotation, 
" Dr. Livingstone climbed the hill and encountered a lion, 
half a mile long and a third of a mile broad." I remember, 
too, how nervousness led to mistakes in reading and how 
more than once the lecturer read the word " misled " as 
though it had been " mizzled." It produced a curious 
sensation when we were told that the great traveller had 
been mizzled. 

My brother Henry gave a lecture on the Ottoman 
empire. I remember one image which he employed at its 
close : the Crescent was the symbol of the Ottoman 



20 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



power, but it was destined, as the influence of a nobler 
faith met it, to expand into the full orb of the Sun of 
Righteousness. 

These are the only lectures of which I can recall any- 
thing. It was perhaps all very foolish, very conceitedly 
ambitious, but yet I am not sure. There was, perhaps, in 
these puerile efforts some wistful desire for self-expression 
and self-culture. 

We had "junketings " in those days, Christmas days, 
which meant cakes and crackers at night, and eager prepara- 
tions in the daytime. 1 remember once how we all joined 
in making ready for the advent of the much-expected cake. 
To us was left the provision of mottoes and quips which 
were to be its attendant satellites. Here is an old envelope. 
From it I draw out some fifteen or twenty slips of paper. 
Once the outside of the paper was brilliantly, silvered : now 
it is a dull and tarnished grey ; but here, fresh as the day 
when they were written, are some of the rhymes and jeux 
d' esprit prepared for the occasion. I cannot vouch for the 
authorship of all ; but I think that my brother Henry was 
responsible for the bulk of them. 

Here are some of them — 

"Welcome to all the little ones, 
The sons and daughters here ; 
I'm sure, before so many sons, 
The frost will disappear. 

"I think a likeness may be found 

'Twixt the globe and this noble dough ; 
They both are round : they both pass round, 
And the north is the land of snow." 



COUSINS AND BROTHER 21 



Here is a plea for taking three helpings of cake — 

" An honest share, an even start : 

Of slices take not less than three ; 
If two, you play a double part ; 
If one, 'tis singularity. 

" If jarring thoughts within you wake, 
Which here at least should never be, 
Just take another piece of cake, 
And pieceful be ! " 

Here is the expression of widespread desire. 

" < Good luck ! Good luck ! 

To the jolly tuck,' 
We cried when we saw it in view. 

Ah ! have we not felt, 

As the frost did melt, 
How our mouths were melting too : " 

Here is the final verdict on the disappearing cake — 

" Come, listen, my friends ! I speak for your sake. 
Take courage and up with your gumption ; 
When an inquest is held on the death of the cake, 
You can say that it died of consumption." 

These are little leaves from the Christmas trees and 
cakes of long ago. 

More riotous than the lecture nights, if not than the 
festival nights, were those in which we played a charade. 
Then we let ourselves go. We chose a proverb : we 
developed some imaginary story to fit the scenes : we as- 
signed their parts to the players. The properties required 
for the various scenes were collected ; but all the rest — 
the words to be spoken, the action, the gestures — were left 
to the moment ; the speeches were extempore, and each 



22 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



actor was free to develop the little plot as he pleased, so 
long as he did so in harmony with the pre-arranged denoue- 
ment. This kind of semi-impromptu charade proved very 
amusing. Of course, there was the risk of some deadly dull 
scene, but, on the other hand, the unexpected play, the 
sudden utterance of some irresistible bit of humour, a 
passing joke, a staggering repartee, and the frightful joy of 
watching how the little piece was going, all added a never- 
failing interest to the amusement of the evening. 

There was also at times a delight in mystifying the 
audience, as when on one occasion we raised the curtain 
upon a blank stage : no actor, no furniture to be seen, and 
then the curtain was lowered. Of course, the word was 
" Nothing," and as the proverb was " Nothing venture, 
nothing have," the same mysterious and uninteresting 
scene was given twice ; but in compensation, the words 
" Venture " and " Have " were startlingly full of incident 
and noise. 

What about Pagildeafilda in all these scenes ? He was 
just the ready creature, obedient, unselfish, doing his best 
in everything he was given to do, good-naturedly joining 
in folly, if folly was the order of the hour ; patiently 
fulfilling any duty, small or conspicuous, which was put 
upon him ; wholly lacking in self-consciousness, he felt no 
misgiving and showed no hesitation in playing the fool. 

Times changed : the house in which such antics were 
played was given up : the father who had encouraged with 
genuine interest and applauded with frank appreciation our 
boyish efforts died one spring day, and the act was over. 

Pagildeafilda went abroad to South America. There he 



COUSINS AND BROTHER 



23 



was as a clerk the same faithful, uncomplaining, conscientious 
creature that he had ever been. Those hideous insects — 
the pests of the newcomer — attacked his feet. He was 
crippled so much that he could not walk from his lodgings 
to his place of business. He said^ nothing : no one knew 
the agony he was suffering : no one realized the heroism of 
his conscientious devotion to his duty. Only afterwards it 
was discovered that, as he could not walk, he had made his 
bed under the office counter, so that he never missed his 
daily duty. 

Later he returned to England : he lived a quiet life — 
helping others. He never married : the key to his single 
life was his unselfishness : he could help the more easily 
his own kinsfolk, being unmarried. 

To the end he was the same : always kindly, always 
brimful of good nature : interested keenly in others : the 
self-denying friend in the house, who exhausted himself in 
playing with the children, who was ready to run any errand 
if thereby he could save a friend any anxiety or fatigue. 

I remember how once at Ripon, when he must have 
been over fifty years of age, he consented to attempt to 
dance the Scottish sword dance. We put down the poker 
and shovel to represent the crossed swords, and dear 
Pagildeafilda pounded out in middle-aged fashion the dance 
which of all dances needs lightness, brightness and delicate 
accuracy. It would have been ludicrous but for the sweet, 
unselfconscious good nature which began and carried through 
the solemn performance. 

There ! it is only a sketch of a good, sincerely kind 
and half-heroic, half-pathetic figure — a man who lived an 



24 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



obscure and uneventful life without a wide outlook, perhaps, 
without the companionship of rich imaginings and glowing 
fancies, without great ambitions, without grave discontents, 
who, without envy of others or repining at his lot, accepted 
the limitations of his life, fulfilled his daily task dutifully, 
thought much of others and little of self, and reaped without 
probably realizing what he was reaping — the harvest of that 
homage of respect and affection which always waits upon 
those who are true of heart. 



MY BROTHER HENRY 



" Poeta nascitur" said an Oxford examiner, as a young 
man retired from his examination. It expressed the truth, for 
my brother Henry was always poetic. He dreamed always : 
he would forget his errand because carried away into another 
world. He hated all disagreeable things, and he would 
always shirk facing them. He did not see why life should 
not be pleasant, and I am bound to say that he had great 
ability in making things pleasant. He could talk well, and 
he could play the fool with a happy grace. He had his 
moods. Now he was overwhelmed with some great and 
intolerable grief ; but it passed like a cloud, and he would 
soon be all smiles and sunshine. 

How well I remember a night at Cambridge, when 1 
was startled by a visit from the college porter : he told 
me that a gentleman wanted to see me. It was after 
hours : it must have been 1 1 p.m. ; the college gates were 
shut, and it was against rules to let strangers in. I went 
down my staircase and crossed over to the porter's lodge ; 
there, in the dim light of the lodge entrance, stood my 
brother Henry, looking the picture of misery. The porter 
seemed moved with compassion, for he said, "The 
gentleman can come in if he will promise to leave before 
midnight." So, against rules, my brother Henry came to 
my rooms, and unfolded his tale of sorrow. " Oh, mummy " 

2 5 



26 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



(he always called me this), " it is hard when one has sur- 
rendered one's heart to another's keeping, to have it 
suddenly flung back, as though it were a worthless thing. 
I thought her all gentle innocence and loyal faith ; but 
now, now," etc. 

All this was Aramaic to me, yet the gist of it was 
obvious : he had been fascinated by some Oxford girl, and 
he had brought his broken heart over to Cambridge. 1 
made him take some food, and let him tell his story. 
Faithful to the pledge to the porter, he left me about mid- 
night. I saw him to the lodge gate : he went to his hotel, 
promising to join me at breakfast in the morning. 

I went to bed, dreading the morning, and wondering 
how I was to minister to a mind diseased or how to piece 
together the fragments of a broken heart. In the morning 
I was up betimes : chapel was over ; breakfast was set, and 
I awaited with some anxiety my sorrow-stricken brother. 
About nine o'clock he entered — radiant, smiling. He 
glanced round the room : he looked where the breakfast 
was laid, solemn and stiff, on the large centre table. " Oh, 
mummy," he said, dragging a small table into the window, 
"let's have breakfast in the window." He was quite right. 
There the sun was peeping round the corner : there was 
brightness and the sense of phe smile of morning ; the 
centre of the room had no inspiration in it. So in the 
window we sat and had our breakfast. Sorrow had hardly 
endured through the night : joy had come in the morning. 
My brother stayed a couple of days. My own college 
friends came in to see him : we lunched at one another's 
rooms, and my brother, like a man who had never known 



MY BROTHER HENRY 



27 



a care, was the life of the party — full of fun, sprightly in 
speech. He enjoyed himself, and it did one good to see 
his enjoyment. I think he went back to Oxford heart whole. 

Of course there were other affairs : they meant the 
whole world while they lasted, but they were only passing 
clouds. The sun was sure to come out later on. 

Mercurial, fascinating, affectionate, magnanimous, he 
was a delightful companion, when you could catch him in 
the mood. Of course, he was uncertain. Make an 
arrangement to meet ? Well, it might be tried, but it 
was much wiser to leave all meetings to happy chance. 
Once I agreed to meet him in London : he would come 
from Oxford by a particular train. I went to Paddington : 
I paced the platform : I met more than one train. I waited 
so long that, when I rejoined a Cambridge friend, we were 
late for the proposed expedition. The next day we were 
reviewed, as Volunteers, in Hyde Park. At an interval 
we were allowed to break rank and hunt up our Oxford 
friends. I found my brother Henry. Foolishly, I began 
with reproach : " Why didn't you come up by the train you 
promised ? " It was all in vain : why face disagreeable 
things ? Off my Henry was flouncing. When I cried 
after him, " You might tell me where you are staying ! " 
" Marshall Thompson's Hotel." This was all I could get 
from him. It was a waste of time to be vexed with him : 
he compelled affection in spite of any little erratic proceed- 
ing. His magnetism never failed. When thinking of him, 
Goldsmith's lines about Garrick begin to ring in my ears — 

" He threw off his friends like a hunter his pack, 
For he knew when he chose he could whistle them back." 



28 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

His magnetism was due to the unspoilt childlikeness of 
his nature — generous, impulsive, large-hearted, he could 
rejoice with those that rejoiced — the hardest task of a 
jealous nature — but jealousy he had none. 

He fulfilled the promise of his youth, and the eulogy of 
the Oxford examiner. When he was assistant master at 
Portora School — called the Eton of Ireland — the Earl of 
Carlisle, then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, visited the school. 
My brother Henry wrote some verses of welcome for the 
occasion : in them the task of the schoolmasters, who 
looked forward to the approaching holidays with happiness 
as keen as that of their pupils, was portrayed thus : all had 
looked forward to the end of term — 

" But chiefly we, whose life is only seen 
As rills which make their shrouding grass more green, 
Whose task it is, with ever-fostering care, 
To teach the opening bud to bloom more fair, 
From treasured Past and Present to unroll 
The first faint stream of glories on the soul, 
To watch and work, from morn to even chime, 
Train the wild beast in Boyhood's fiery prime, 
Shape fancy's flight our mission to fulfil, 
Prompt the slow thought and chain the rebel will." 

Lord Carlisle's contributions to literature were not 

forgotten. The metrical paraphrase of the eighth chapter 

of Daniel was thus alluded to — 

" Once did thy hand the seer's dark page unroll, 
To thrid the mazes of his hallowed scroll ; 
Lost in deep wondering trance, thine eye explored 
The far-off promise of the unerring word ; 
The years rolled back 'their veil, and thou didst see 
The measured march of glorious days to be, 
Didst watch thro' Heaven the soaring wing of fire, 
And strike one chord on Judah's burning lyre." 



MY BROTHER HENRY 



29 



The following lines, which were written with the 
memory of Lord Carlisle's book entitled, A Diary in 
Turkish and Greek Waters, may have some special interest 
for us who are watching the painful struggle in the Near 
East, wondering at the tortuous vacillations of dishonoured 
Greece, and expecting the last days of Turkish misrule — 

"Or didst thou trace for us, with glowing pen, 
Thy wandering footsteps among distant men ; 
Still ever on with each recorded day, 
We glided with thee o'er thy watery way ; 
Dropped our glad anchor under mountain steep, 
Stemmed the broad tide of Helle's purple deep, 
Or, couched by classic stream and mouldering fane, 
Saw high o'erhead the Moslem crescent wane. 
Ever for us enthroned in dazzling snows, 
Once home of gods, Olympus grandly rose ; 
Still leaped through trellised vine and smooth rock-layers, 
The crystal fountain down its marble stairs." 

Ten years later, my brother settled in America. There 
he found friends, who loved his fresh and boyish character, 
his wide capacity of delight in all things beautiful, his charm 
of manner and of speech. There his poetic fancy blossomed 
into more adventurous song. Besides minor pieces, he 
brought out a volume, entitled Liber Amoris^ containing a 
poem in four books, or, as he called them, watches. The 
first watch was introduced by a wind song ; the second by a 
moon song ; the third by a star song, and the fourth by a 
pawn song. A story like a silver thread bound the four 
watches into one complete night watch. The story in its 
setting was mediaeval ; but it was intended to shadow forth 
the changes in religious conception which might be expected 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



when the undercurrents of modern thought had influenced 
the stream of popular opinion. 

The prologue tells the general thought and explains the 
title of the poem — 

" * Behold the Book of Love/ said then the seer ; 
' Take it > and hold it warm within thy robe, 
Next thy heart's pulses. On its leaves each day 
Great Love's invisible finger creeping soft 
And slow, as with a sunbeam shall inscribe 

All things whatever in his name thou doest. 

# # # # # 

# # # # # 

Know, therefore, that whatsoever in pure Love 
Thou doest is straightway writ within this book. 
Look to't. For when Love comes, He opens this, 
And from this reads to every soul its doom.' " 

The appreciation or realization of this principle will be 
seen, in the days when the present activities of religious 
thought have fulfilled themselves. This is expressed in the 
last scene, when the narrator is dying : a fading fire, emblem 
of closing life, burns fitfully in the room — 

" On this low hearth-fire, dying as I die ; 
See its last tongue of flame, that slowly spires 
Upward and seems a monumental light 
Unquenchable, lifting its ensign high 
Above the grey dust of each buried spark. 
O tarry a moment till I take from thee 
A prophesying symbol of the day, 
Whose dawn already whitens through the East ! 
The Hour is coming — hear ye not her feet 
Falling in sweet sphere-thunder down the stairs 
Of Love's pure sky ? When this our holy Church 
Shall melt away in ever- widening walls, 
And be for all mankind, and in its place 
A mightier Church shall come, whose covenant word 



MY BROTHER HENRY 



3i 



Shall be the deeds of love. Not Credo then, — 

Amo shall be the password through its gates. 

Man shall not ask his brother any more 

' Believest thou ? ' but 1 Lovest thou ? ' and all 

Shall answer at God's altar, ' Lord, I love.' 

For Hope may anchor, Faith may steer, but Love, 

Great Love alone, is captain of the soul." 

This poem won rapid recognition in America, and 
among those who cordially acknowledged its merits were the 
poet and essayist, Oliver Wendell Holmes. It is pleasant 
to give the story of their recognition in my brother's own 
words. 

" I sent or asked the Ticknors to send a copy of the 
second edition of the poem. ... I can only say in its 
behalf that the whole story, plot and characters are original, 
and conceived and carried out on a definite plan. I enjoyed 
writing it. By some special benediction it has given me, 
according to Dr. O. W. Holmes, a first-class place among 
writers of verse. I hardly think I would like to say this to 
any but you. It sounds self-conceited. But I hope such 
feelings are not within me." 

In 1887 he went for a year's tour to the Mediterranean. 
In this trip he was able to gratify his long-felt wish to visit 
Greece. As the steamer drew near to its classic shores, 
his eager enthusiasm knew no bounds : he began to climb 
high upon the mast to catch the first glimpse of the land of 
his studies and his dreams. After this tour he returned 
with fresh inspirations for his work. He gave courses of 
lectures, and prepared for an extended tour through the 
States ; but he did not live to accomplish this purpose. 

On the evening of July 16, 1890, he entertained a 



32 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



party of friends with his usual vivacity and fascination ; he 
was full of plans, hopes and high spirits ; but the next 
morning brought the end. As he was dressing, he fell ; 
a clot of blood had reached the heart. The editor of his 
posthumous work wrote in a kind and generously appre- 
ciative preface : " the warm heart had ceased to throb, the 
gifted brain was dead, the eloquent tongue was silent for 
ever. ,, " Happily," continued the same writer, " the 
world has not lost his beautiful lyrics. The poet remains, 
though the orator's voice be silent. Dearer than either, 
remains the memory of the man, simple, frank, kindly, 
generous in thought and word and deed. Peace to his 
gentle spirit." 

So wrote Mr. James Jeffrey Roche in his preface to 
a volume entitled, A Poet's Last Songs. The last songs 
contained many delightful pieces. Three of these I give, 
feeling sure that their thought and music will be welcome 
to those who are strangers to this work. 



ANTITH ETA 

"'E/c to)V evavTiW KaAAum; apjAovia." 

Aristotle. 

Lo, Death and Sorrow and Pain are sweet, 
And Life and Pleasure and joy are good ; 

And these are one and as one shall meet, 
When all we feel shall be understood. 

Then lift thy face into Sorrow's rain, 

Yea, deem it sweet as the spring's young breath ; 
Stoop low and drink of the pool of Pain, 

Dip thy Life's urn in the well of Death. v 



MY BROTHER HENRY 



For Bliss is painlike, and Pain is bliss, 

And Love must weep till the dawn of day. 

Then Death shall waken at Life's warm kiss, 
And Joy wed Sorrow in smiles for aye. 



PEARLS 

Say not : I never throw to fool or clown 

My goodly pearls ; for swine I ne'er amassed them. 

Say rather : Are these pearls which I cast down, 
And are those always swine to whom I cast them ? 



NON SINE LACHRTM1S 

It was that hour when vernal Earth 

And stormy March prepare 
For the first day of April's tearful birth, 

That I, o'ercome with care, 
Rose in the twilight from a fireless hearth, 

To take the fresh first air, 

And smile at morning's mirth. 

Tired with old grief's self-pitying moan, 

A mile I had not strayed 
Ere my dire path grew dark with double zone 

Of men full fair arrayed ; 
While blast with sound as battle-trumpets blown, 

Came, as through light comes shade, 

Cries like an undertone. 

Plumed with torn cloud, March led the way, 
With spear-point keen for thrust, 
And eager eyes, and harnessed form swathed grey 

With drifts of wind-blown dust. 
Round his bruised buckler, in bright letters, lay 
This scroll which toilers trust : 
Non sine pulvere. 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



Wet as from weltering showers and seas, 
April came after him. 
He held a cup with saddest imageries 

Engraven, and round the rim, 
Worn with woe's lip, I spelt out words like these, 
All sorrow-stained and dim : 
Non sine lachrymis. 

These passed like regal spirits crowned, 

Strong March and April fair, 
And then a sphere-made music slow unwound 

Its soul upon the air ; 
And soft as exhalations from the ground, 

Or spring flowers here and there 

These words rose through the sound : 

" Man needs these two for this world's moil, 

Earth's drought and dew of spheres, 
Grief's freshening rain to lay the dust of toil, 

Toil's dust to dry the tears. 
To all who 'rise as wrestlers in life's coil, 

Time brings with days and years 

The wrestler's sand and oil." 

O toil in vain, without surcease ! 

O Grief no hand may stay ! 
Think on these words when work or woes increase 

Man, made of tears and clay, 
Grows to full stature and God's perfect peace, 

Non sine pulvere 

Non sine lachrymis. 



MY BEATRICE 



I wonder whether we shall ever be able to estimate 
rightly the value of unconscious influence. We meet 
one another : we speak : we laugh and exchange a few 
thoughts : we part ; but as no force is lost, some measure 
of mutual influence must have been exchanged. As the 
planet flies along its orbit, it is disturbed in its course, 
I suppose, by every body which comes within range of 
it. But the disturbance is only temporary : the planet 
may have swerved for a moment, but its course is 
unchanged. Such, I suppose, may represent the passing 
influences to which each of us is subject in the inter- 
course of life. I cannot, perhaps, measure the force of 
each several influence, but I know that after converse 
with one, I feel a sensible exhilaration : I go with a better 
confidence back to my work ; after converse with another, 
I feel unable to settle down : my centre of gravity has 
been disturbed ; I am — no, not irritated, but perhaps 
thrown off" my balance ; after converse with a third, I am 
wholly depressed : power, alacrity of thought, hopefulness 
in effort, has been diminished. The subtle influences of 
personality make themselves felt. 

This is all preface to one chapter in my life. The 
one whose influence is in my thoughts as I write, knows 
little and probably cares less about the matter. Our lives 

35 



36 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



have drifted apart. When last she wished me to know 
of a family bereavement, she sent word to me through 
another channel, pleading that she did not know where 
to find me — and yet she was Beatrice to me. 

I have always wondered at the discussions respecting 
Dante's Beatrice. The whole story was so clear to me : 
it was written large in my experience from the time when 
I was fifteen years old till the time when I was swept 
into the current of busy life in full manhood. 

No,. I am not going to give her name. She will never 
read this story, and if she did she would not recognize 
herself. I shall call her my Beatrice ; and I can only say 
of her — she never realized and she will never know the 
deep, strong, and all-pervading character of her influence. 
She was two years older than I : and she was goddess and 
counsellor to me. I have all her letters — though fifty years 
have passed, 1 keep them as sacred : the spell of what she 
once was to me still remains. 

It is folly, you will say, to write of such things. Is 
it ? I doubt it. I want women to know what they can 
be in the lives of boys and young men. I want them to 
realize the deep worshipfulness of spirit which they can 
evoke and foster ; for she was God's minister to me, and 
through her all my life seemed sacred in the dangerous 
years, those narrow straits of life which connect boyhood 
and manhood. These are the years in which those changes 
come which whisper strange secrets, and weave the spell 
of larger responsibility about the soul : then the sense of 
new and greater things visits the spirit : it reaches out 
towards something beyond, it is ripe for religion. 



MY BEATRICE 



37 



As it happened, the time of which I speak was one of 
religious revival : a spirit of excitement and expectancy 
was abroad. In the heavens were signs : the tail of a 
gigantic comet hung for many nights in the forehead of 
the sky : its length measured out an arc which filled one- 
third of the heaven above. The signs portended great 
things : the end of the world perchance was near ; an 
atmosphere of religiosity spread everywhere — a great 
evangelist visited Liverpool, and made a deep impression. 
It was, as people said, a harvest time of souls. Whether 
this atmosphere drew very closely round the thoughts or 
feelings of my Beatrice, I cannot say ; or whether a native 
simplicity of piety, which had grown up in quietness, was 
hers, undisturbed by prevailing fashions — 1 cannot say. 
One thing was true : she became to me a sweet spiritual 
mentor. 

Let me turn out the long-cherished memorials of those 
days, and of that sweet influence. Here is a tiny scrap 
of paper, not more than an inch long : it is folded and 
within is written a Bible text. She has put it into my 
hand as I left church, or as we parted, and said Good 
night. You will be inclined, perhaps, to turn disdainfully 
away from such a commonplace thing ; but consider what 
it meant in the life of a lad. The girl was my worship : 
all the romantic power of one's youthful, unspoken feeling 
streamed towards her ; her features were beautiful : her 
colouring just bright enough to satisfy — no faded hues 
weakened her features, no blatant colours coarsened them : 
her eyes looked out purely and with a reticent or self- 
respecting interestedness upon life ; she was beautiful and 



38 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



she was good, and the power she exercised gained elevation 
from the religious revival spirit which was abroad. 

The language of religion at that time was not that of 
to-day : this must be kept in mind. The form of religion 
found its expression in hymns which sang of imminent 
peril : 

" Jesu ! Lover of my soul, 

Let me to Thy Bosom fly. 

Other refuge have I none, 

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee." 



Life presented a scene of desolation and danger : all 
stood in need of some ark of . safety. To have reached 
that ark was the one thing needful. We were as hunted 
creatures flying towards a city of refuge : the avenger of 
blood was on our track : time was precious : peril was 
near. Happy he who could win the gate of the city 
before the inevitable blow of the avenger could fall. 
This aspect of the religious life was more highly coloured 
by the widespread expectation of our Lord's second 
coming ; in the case of my Beatrice it was brought vividly 
to mind by a startling incident which occurred about this 
time. We were at a meeting of the Society for Promoting 
Christianity among the Jews. We were in the gallery. 
A small disturbance occurred while the Bishop of Chester 
(Dr. Graham) was speaking : its meaning was not under- 
stood till Dr. M'Neile rose to speak, when under deep 
emotion he told us that the disturbance had been caused 
by the sudden illness and death of a man in the body 
of the hall. He spoke of the event, and he ^made 



MY BEATRICE 



39 



an appeal to the careless and indifferent : the event was 
God's voice crying to every man. " In such an hour as 
ye think not the Son of Man cometh," might have been 
the text of his appeal that night. Every one was deeply 
moved, and my Beatrice among them. That night when 
we separated, she pressed into my hand a scrap of paper, in 
which her earnestness expressed itself. It ran thus : " Do 
not rest to-night till you can rest in Jesus. Now is the 
accepted time. Pray, pray." This breathes the spirit of 
the moment ; who can say that, allowing for the form, 
which was a common form sixty years ago, it does not 
express the eternal truth that repose and peace of soul can 
never be found in oneself, and can only be found in One 
who presents to us those divine characteristics which imply 
stability allied with those human characteristics which seem 
to make sympathy possible ? 

At any rate, the incident shows the spirit of guardian- 
ship which my Beatrice exercised over me in that period of 
my life. My friendship grew. She was the repository of 
my secret ambitions and of my consciousness of the weak 
unworthiness of those ambitions. Our intercourse was 
intermittent : her dwelling-place was seldom fixed for a 
long time in one place ; she was in request, now to look 
after a brother, now to accompany an aunt on a visit ; and 
I was soon to move to Cambridge ; so personal intercourse 
was never continuous ; but our interchange of letters was, 
if not frequent, yet steady ; and it always dealt with the 
higher aspects of life — with the soul and its difficulties, 
with the problems of Christian experience, with the inner 
conflict and the heavenly help. 



4 o FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

u We need," so she wrote to me when I was at Cam- 
bridge, " we need every stimulating help : the way seems 
at times so rough and so narrow, and the light, or rather 
our eyes, so dim. How much easier it would be, if we 
had a single eye to the glory of God. I was rather struck 
by a passage in a little book I was reading the other day : 
( It is upon the smooth ice we slip ; the rough path is the 
safest for our feet.' ... I remember you in what you 
asked for. How much there is to humble pride in the 
world ; there is nothing to be proud of ; everything is 
mixed with sin and defiled in the eyes of a Holy God. 
God's great love is so plainly revealed in His dealing with 
us. He takes down my pride so often, but in such a 
gentle way. Like as a Father He pitieth His children. 

" Your last letter refers to the time when we began to 
write about the one thing needful. How well God arranges 
all things 1 How useless this correspondence would have 
been, if what was of most importance had been left out. 
When was it that you began to believe in Christ as your 
Saviour ? How quickly time passes ! I did not think 
it was five years since we were in Llandudno — yet how 
much has happened since then to warn us and show us that 
all things are changing here. We have no abiding city 
here ; c all flesh is grass, and all the glory of man as the 
flower of the grass.' I have heard it said that if a man 
lived for seventy years, the first thirty years of his life 
would be longer than the last forty. ' It is high time to 
awake out of sleep.' We must be up and doing ; the past 
and the future are nothing in the face of the stern to-day. 
It is no use to expect rest while the enemy is near at hand ; 



MY BEATRICE 



41 



resting-timc will come afterwards. It is hard to be prac- 
tical ; theory is all very easy. In many things memory 
does seem like a curse ; I often wish words and actions 
could be recalled, and thoughts blotted out, but there they 
remain, to cure us of our pride and to stir us up to 
be more circumspect in the future, and this surely is a 
blessing." 

It will be said that there is nothing remarkable in this 
letter. It can hardly carry force or light to those who read 
it in cold blood, with more than half a century between 
them and the date of the letter. I give it not as a contribu- 
tion to present-day thought, but as a record of the sweet 
and earnest spirit which this dear guardian friend of mine 
showed me in my youth. She was mentor and confidante. 
Always the note of higher things was struck in her letters : 
they came to me like angels' visits ; they brought their 
appeal and their power of caution ; they were a true 
ministry to me, all the more powerful because they came 
from one who to me was the embodiment of beautiful, 
pure, and God-loving womanhood. Her influence central- 
ized for the moment my life, by drawing it nearer to its 
true centre, which is God. How much it meant in its 
steadying and uplifting power I can never tell ; but it made 
all women sacred and worshipful in my eyes. Always the 
memory and the thought of her brought a consecration 
upon all things, and rough and coarse talk, and the doubtful 
tales which sometimes floated through university life, were 
hateful to me. 

It may be that some will read youth's romance and 
nothing else in this little record of an early influence. I 



4 2 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



do not dispute it if they will so read it ; but as I look back, 
I feel that God uses all experiences of life to achieve some 
good, and that among these experiences the high worshipful 
affection which a growing lad may feel for a girl somewhat 
older than himself is no mean power to mould, to disci- 
pline, to prepare, and even to inspire his life. At any rate, 
though for more years than I care to recall my life has 
been sundered from that of my Beatrice, I look back with 
glad thankfulness to the time when her gentle and unselfish 
vigilance seemed to watch over my growing years. I know 
that she made womanhood sacred to me, and I think that 
the serious trend of my life owed much to the spiritual 
influence with which she filled the atmosphere of my early 
life. She, perhaps, has forgotten all this, perhaps never 
realized that she was exercising any influence at all, and 
perhaps she will never know how I bless God for all she 
was to me. 

Do not chide me that I set these thoughts down as I 
recall past days. We live in an age in which there seems a 
feverish desire to advertise our beneficence ; we are restless 
till we know that our philanthropies have been duly chron- 
icled and amply applauded ; we are eager to see results, 
and to receive assurance that our influence is known, 
recognized and appreciated. Are we wise ? Are we not 
brushing the bloom off goodness in making it public ? Is 
there not a charm and a special virtue about the quiet in- 
fluence of such as do not " strive, nor cry, nor let their 
voices be heard in the street." Is there not a lesson to be 
learned from Him who so often deprecated publicity, giving 
the caution, " See thou tell no man " ? 



MY BEATRICE 



43 



As I believe that there is a special fragrance about the 
unrecorded influences of life, I have chronicled my own 
experience of such an influence. May it bring a message of 
hope and comfort to those who, perhaps, are depressed 
because they seem to have been sowing and have never been 
called to reap. The silent influences of life may be the most 
abiding, and those which have never found their way into 
print may be written in heaven and in the hearts of those 
who do not forget. 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 



There are sacred places in our memories as there are 
churches in our cities — places which none may enter save 
with reverence of heart. We uncover the head if we are 
Westerns, we take off our shoes if we are Easterns ; the 
fashion is different, but the spirit is the same. We are 
filled with the spirit of reverence : the sense of the unseen 
is here. I ask no man to read this chapter who does not 
know what reverence means. Nay, reader, if your soul 
knows nothing of the awfulness of life's sweet and simple 
things, if you cannot see how beauty may dwell among 
foolish things, or cannot hear the sound of tears amid the 
laughter of life, then, I pray you, pass on and leave this 
chapter unread, for I think that, though I do not know 
you, I should feel some passing anguish of heart if a 
mocking spirit should possess you while you read. 

Why write at all ? some will ask ; why write at all if 
things written about are sacred ? Why expose your heart 
to mockery ? Friend, you are right. I have asked myself 
the same question, and the answer is, I cannot tell you 
why — save that some influence which I cannot explain 
moves me to write. It seems as though the spirit of the 
past has a power over the present, and while the present 
says, " It is done with — leave it ; write nothing for fear of 

44 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 



writing unwisely or unworthily," another spirit steals nearer 
to me, and says, " Write ; it is not fitting that these things 
should be forgotten ; they were once your life ; they 
formed your heart, your mind, your destiny. The sweet 
service which wrought so patiently in those earlier years 
ought not to be forgotten. Your heart responds to me 
when I speak. There are, moreover, those alive and at your 
side to-day who will love and cherish the memories you — 
and you only — can record. Do not fear the world. Men 
and women who have loved and lost will understand you. In 
the temple of sorrow all are ready to worship : into it there 
entereth nothing that can defile." So I write of things 
most sacred. 

The scene is an English vicarage. The house, built of 
yellowish stone, is solid and square, and stands with a quiet 
determination upon ground which falls to the southward 
and gives a pleasant view of the Chiltern Hills. The door 
of the house looks to the east ; and above the trees and 
shrubs which surround the circular carriage-drive, the church 
spire can be seen like a protecting sentinel of the village. 
Along the south front of the house there is a gravel path 
flanked by a croquet ground which runs beyond the limits 
of the house into the kitchen garden on the west. Up and 
down this path I walked with my brother-in-law, William 
Peers, and his bride. The sun is shining, and a pleasant 
reminiscence of summer and warmth is in the air ; the 
church-bells, harsh and jubilant, are clanging with earnest 
endeavour to tell the countryside how glad they are. It 
is my wedding day. The village folk, who love the bride 
well for her kindly visits and cheery sympathy, have erected 



46 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



a triumphal arch. While the villagers are still gossiping 
round the church porch or near the verdant arch, I am 
hearing wise and kindly words from my brother-in-law and 
his wife as we pace the garden path. "Well, if you two 
are to be as happy as we are," says my brother-in-law from 
his superior height (he is six feet high) and his older 
experience of wedded life (he has been married just seven 
weeks), " you will be happy indeed." I murmur some 
incoherent but grateful words of thanks for the implied 
wish, and the conversation continues on the same lines of 
satisfaction and hope. I am quite content, for my brother- 
in-law was my best-loved college chum. He and Taylor 
Whitehead (of whom more anon) and I used to breakfast with 
one another in turn. Nine o'clock was the breakfast hour 
agreed upon : by a majority of two to one the triumvirate 
voted that hour. This arrangement gave me an hour for 
quiet reading before breakfast, as I came out of chapel 
about 8 a.m. ; but now the old college days are things of 
the past. My brother-in-law is a staid and grave married 
man ; he is curate in Tewkesbury, and we have promised 
to spend a night with him there during our wedding trip. 

But, pleasant as is the garden path and the sympathetic 
talk of a kindly new-made brother and sister, the anxious 
preparations inside the vicarage end in a demand for our 
presence. There is the wedding breakfast, that now obso- 
lete institution. The wedding breakfast has been provided 
by a well-known caterer at Oxford. We have menu cards 
printed and frilled in suggestive fashion: a wedding menu 
is written all over the face of the card. I am seated next 
to the bride: we occupy the most conspicuous place at 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 



the table : we eat or try to eat. Over me there hangs the 
cloud of apprehension : the breakfast involves speeches, and 
I cannot escape the obligation and ordeal of returning 
thanks. The supreme moment has come : Mr. Singleton, 
the oldest friend of the family present, proposes the health 
of the bride and bridegroom. He is a man of sympathetic 
nature, whose thoughts find expression along emotional 
channels. He speaks with genuine feeling, and therefore 
with a true eloquence. He is a surprise to some of the 
company, and he does not make the bridegroom's task easy. 
Tears glisten in the eyes of the bride's mother, and the 
emotional wave is felt by many of the company. 

The inevitable moment has come : I cannot escape : I 
am on my feet : I take refuge in the proverb, " Brevity is the 
soul of wit " — I am sure friends would wish me to be witty : 
therefore I shall be brief, and close my speech with a simple 
Thank you. And thus the alarming moment was passed* 
The feast flags : there are signs of lethargy, a restlessness 
of expectation : some whispered words, and significant 
nods ; and the bride is escorted upstairs to change for the 
journey. What happened in that interval so awkward for 
all, especially for me, I cannot recollect, except that my 
dear old father-in-law took me to his room and placed some 
unexpected banknotes in my hand, and with his happy and 
generous bonhomie, wished me well. This was a pleasing 
incident of that waiting time : it is pleasant to recall it now. 
Another incident I recall, because it startled me with a 
pained surprise. A good lady, well-meaning and coura- 
geous, a friend of the family, caught me on the stairs and 
implored me to be kind to the bride. I felt insulted, I 



48 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



remember. Perhaps I can understand her better now ; but, 
going away as I was, with the dear child of my heart, and 
with a knowledge of life as limited as that of a girl, I was 
conscious only of an angered resentment. 

However, the carriage is at the door : the guests crowd 
the hall ; we are swept along amid a shower of incoherent 
words. We are in the carriage : the door is shut, and the 
stately family coach wheels out of the drive. We gather 
ourselves together to acknowledge the farewells of the 
villagers. We descend the crooked steep which leads to 
the highroad ; we are sweeping along the wide highway 
which leads to Oxford. Tears fill my little bride's eyes as 
she drives away from her home. I feel a pain, half resent- 
ful and half pitying. Am 1 not compensation enough for all 
losses ? Foolish and inexperienced heart of self-sufficient 
youth ! But soon the tears are dried ; the drive to Oxford 
lasts nearly two hours, but at last we are at the station. 
We are in the train speeding towards Shrewsbury, and as 
we fly over the pleasant fields, the great sun, sinking in a 
crimson glory, gives us a splendid farewell. We alight at 
the Raven Hotel in Shrewsbury. We write letters to tell 
how we have sped. We read together the twenty-third 
Psalm — the sweet psalm of pilgrimage — which, some 
twelve years later, I was to read to her again when the 
chill shadow of death was drawing near. 

Our wedding trip was a joy and a blunder ; a joy because 
we were together, a blunder because we tried to show an 
impartial consideration to our relatives. The result was 
that we travelled too much. Judge of it. We reached 
Dublin on Friday. We had been married on the Wednes- 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 



day. My friend, Sheppard Welland, met us on our arrival, 
and escorted us to rooms he had secured for us. On Sun- 
day I read for the Rev. Thomas Welland, at his church in 
Dublin. The next week we were in Enniskillen, where 
my eldest brother was living. On the Friday we travelled 
to Chester. On the Saturday we reached Tewkesbury, to 
pay a visit to my brother-in-law, William Peers. Thence 
.we travelled to Dartmouth : my wife's father and mother 
were there on a visit to their elder son John, who was then 
on board the Britannia. From Dartmouth we went to 
London, and spent a night with a friend ; on Saturday we 
reached Maidstone. We had thus in the short eighteen 
days travelled 1400 miles. We were tired with the long 
journeys and the attendant excitements, and we were a 
ragged-looking couple when we reached Maidstone, and 
my duties began. We had paid too much attention to 
our relatives, and we had squandered our time in wearying 
travel. 

The house we occupied was the Old Palace, which over- 
hung the Medway ; it was a glorious old house, once 
the residence of the Archbishops of Canterbury, but now 
divided into two moderate, and more or less convenient or 
inconvenient dwellings. Lady Frances Riddell occupied 
one half, and we, with my mother, occupied the other. 
The work was pleasant. My vicar, the Rev. David Dale 
Stewart, one of the kindest and dearest of men, was all 
that a young curate could wish : kind, wise, sympathetic, 
helpful — with some amazing idiosyncracies, but free from 
all littleness of soul. For two years we stayed at Maid- 
stone. At the end of it we found it wise to move, and I 



So FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



found a curacy at Clapham, where we found rooms first in 
the Wandsworth Road, and later in a house situated in 
Lambourn Road. 

I wonder whether the follies of a couple of happy- 
children will amuse those who dwell in the outside world. 
We were sometimes hard pressed in those days ; many little 
things which we wished to add to our household store we 
were obliged to forgo. There were now two children, a 
boy and a girl, to be cared for. Wages had increased in 
consequence, and our slender resources needed careful 
handling. I remember once how we stood together outside 
a jeweller's or silversmith's shop — to be more explicit, it was 
a pawnbroker's — looking longingly at a small silver butter- 
knife, which we coveted for our breakfast table ; we hesi- 
tated ; we turned away our eyes from the tempting vanity ; 
we left the arena of attraction, and only after some days of 
weighing and calculating and considering did we indulge 
ourselves in the much-wished-for and dainty addition to 
our small store. Is the butter-knife still to be found 
among our possessions ? 1 am sure that it was never 
willingly parted with. The old memory of those lean days 
and our courageous purchase of it gave it a charm beyond 
that of other more ostentatious and richer things. If such 
little incidents have any interest, this also may be added : 
I once sold a waistcoat, receiving in exchange three useful 
household jugs. No ! don't pity us ; it was our little home 
nest, our first home, occupied by ourselves alone ; it was 
our own home, in a sense the Palace at Maidstone had 
never been. There were privations ; we had to take 
thought how to live within our means. Sometimes a great 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 



anxiety about the future would possess my heart, for the 
family was coming on apace ; but self-denials were sweet, 
and our love was like that of happy birds in the nest. And 
that dear little heart at my side, with her quiet, childlike 
trust, would gently chide my anxiety, and if she was away 
she would write me one of her simple-hearted letters. 

" I don't think, darling, that we have any right to begin 
to complain yet, because we have no very bright prospects 
in the future. We never have been left to want, and I do 
not anticipate that we shall, and whatever our trials may be, 
we can remember that God is a loving Father and knows 
best, and then what a blessing it is that we love one another 
and are not unhappy as some people are, and the burdens 
won't be half so heavy when we share them together ; will 
they, darling ? " 

The keynote of all letters which passed between us was 
a simple trust in the v wise providence of God. Often the 
sense of the future pressed heavy on my mind. The arrows 
in the quiver were many ; the little nest was growing full, 
and I had no patron ; 1 had not been able to attach myself 
to any party in the Church ; there was no powerful body of 
trustees to whom I could look for preferment ; I had no 
acquaintance with parliamentary or political leaders. With 
an increasing family, and no influence, often the outlook 
seemed cloudy. I remember once my elder brother con- 
fiding to me that he thought he might reach the dignity of 
an archdeacon. For myself, I think my only ambition was 
to have a. secure position and sufficient to provide for 
the dear children, who were romping in the nursery. The 
way in which, at last, such a position came to me I have 



52 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



told among my first reminiscences. The provision came 
when it was needed, and the first chapter of my home life 
ended with a happy and established position at St. James's, 
Holloway. 

Our interests were our home and our work. The little 
nest was a place of joy. The time of the singing of birds 
was come. In the little mother and in the children my 
heart found a gladness which was not satisfied to be silent. 
How could the sweet witchery of wifehood be left unsung ? 

Little eyes gleaming 

What do they say ? 
Lovingly beaming, 

What do they say ? 
Roguishly dancing, 
Artfully glancing, 
Always entrancing, 

What do they say ? 

Little eyes sparkling, 

What do they say ? 
Light'ning and dark'ning, 

What do they say ? 
Timidly turning, 
Wistfully yearning, 
Tenderly burning, 

What do they say ? 

Little eyes weary, 

What do they say ? 
Tell to me, deary, 

What do they say ? 
Foolishly fearful, 
Teasingly tearful, 
Charmingly cheerful, 

What do they say ? 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 



Little eyes closing, 
What do they say ? 

Lightly reposing, 
What do they say : 

Softly awaking, 

Happy looks taking, 

Little plans making, 
What do they say ? 

Little eyes prayerful, 

What do they say ? 
Little eyes careful, 

What do they say ? 
Anxious for you, love, 
Praying for you, love, 
Trustful of you, love, 
That's what they say ! 

In a summer tempest came our firstborn. 

A mist is hanging o'er the hills, 
And darkness hovers o'er the land, 
While in the west a golden band 

With brightening hope the landscape fills. 

The stormy tempest swift sweeps by, 

The rain comes streaming from the cloud, 
And far re-echo thunders loud — 

And one bright beam slants from on high. 

Dark shadows stretch from 'neath each tree, 
Stretch' in the light 'mid storm and rain ; 
My heart is filled with joy and pain — 

In shade and shine his life will be. 

The mother lies in languid joy, 

The shadows change for rays of light, 
The sun's grand fire will set in night, 

'Mid shade and shine God guide our boy. 



54 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



The mother lies so calm and weak, 

She coils him closer to her side ; 

Her looks are bright with mother's pride : 
My heart o'erflows : I cannot speak. 

But I must not burden these pages with more of these 
heart effusions. I set down these as they serve as tests of 
the atmosphere of our little home. They are measures, 
also, of what was lost when the staypole of my tent fell 
down. 

The early autumn had been happily reminiscent of our 
early joys : the later autumn brought the shadows creeping 
slowly — so slowly as to be scarcely noticed — over our roof. 

The Dhammapada Sutta tells us that out of love sorrow 
is born. The Buddhist stoic would stifle love to avoid 
sorrow. None who have loved will question the truth that 
he who loves must meet sorrow ; but whoever knows love 
will know that it is worth all the sorrow. It is better even 
to have loved, and to know that most desolating sorrow of 
losing the loved one, than never to have loved at all. We, 
in our well-filled nest, had given hostages to fortune ; and 
when illness came our hearts knew a multiplied anxiety. 

Of this we had experience when scarlet fever visited us, 
and every one of our six children were attacked by it. We 
were soon left to fight the foe with very slender forces. 
One of the servants failed us ; neighbours feared to visit us. 
One good lady declared that I ought not to continue my 
duties in church. I remember that she held aloof, and 
liked to have the breadth of the street between us ; across 
it she shouted her inquiries about the children. The fever 
continued. The service at our disposal was scant. The 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 55 

heaviest burden fell on the little mother. In my clumsy, 
man-like way I tried to help. I remember that I lit the 
fires, cleaned the grates, and laid the breakfast. I could, 
at any rate, be a hewer of wood and a drawer of water for 
the sick household. 

The evil increased. The doctor became anxious about 
our eldest child ; the fever in his case took on a malignant 
aspect. A second doctor was called in. The child's throat 
was bad ; it was growing dangerously insensitive. In vain 
it was cauterized : it showed no response. How well I 
remember the moment when this peril threatened. I can 
see the little figure of my wife standing in the room ; the 
light of the westering sun fell upon her face : agony was 
written there. I. knew how her heart was bound up in the 
life of our firstborn. 

Meanwhile severer measures were tried upon the little 
patient. The cauterizing-stick was applied to the throat : 
it was thrust down deep. Suddenly the child rose up in 
wrath, and seemed to spit out the offending intruder. 
" Thank God ! " said the doctors. The response of whole- 
some painfulness had been secured. From that time forward 
the shadows began to recede from the home. For long we 
had pale-faced children in the house, dark patches under 
their eyes ; little fingers were with difficulty kept from 
picking at their faces. After a while, thanks to their grand- 
father's kindness, they were all carried off to Brighton ; 
there, with the sea facing them, and the fresh parade, and 
sands for walk and play, the roses came back and the days 
of pain and peril were past. 

Here I should like to pause and indulge in a digression. 



56 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



People have often speculated about men's callings, and 
wondered which profession or business affords the greater 
chance of heaven, or elsewhere. I have no doubt that every 
calling has its dangers ; I have still less doubt that plumbers 
have, of all trades, the least chance of heaven. Their trade 
offers them such an easy path for fraud, and here, if any- 
where, the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel. Their 
wickednesses are hidden, if not in the depths of their heart, 
yet in the lower places of our homes. It is a marvel to me 
that people have so long borne the bloodguiltiness of this 
business. We try the signalman who, fatigued by long 
hours of work, in a moment of forgetfulness, sends a train 
along the wrong line. If an accident is followed by a death, 
we hold him guilty of manslaughter. But the plumber, 
who in cold blood leaves out a section of drain-pipe, or 
instead of making a joint good fills it with paper, is liable 
to no penalty, though death glides into the house on the 
poisonous wings which he has set free. This is no imaginary 
picture. I saw the pretty home of the young husband and 
wife ; I saw it in its flowering hour, when the first babe lay 
in its mother's arms ; and at that supreme moment of hap- 
piness the evil work of the criminally careless, or more 
criminally covetous plumber, let death loose, and sent the 
young mother to the grave. This is not an irrelevant 
digression. The illness which laid my sick children low 
was traced to its source. The drain pipe to carry off the 
poisonous gas was brought through the cistern, and its 
summit was just above the surface of the water which was 
used for drinking and household purposes. I sent for the 
builder, who was also the owner of the house ; I told him 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 



what we had discovered. He blandly assured me that it 
was quite safe. I replied that I would not pit my judg- 
ment against his, but that T would refer the question to the 
sanitary inspector. If the sanitary inspector approved the 
arrangement of drain pipe and cistern I would not ask for 
any change. There was no need to say more. The reply 
came without hesitation. An immediate change should be 
made. The ways of some men are wonderful, and the 
perils to which the unwary are exposed by the unscrupulous 
are many. Had the Apostle lived in modern days he would 
not have complained of the coppersmith, but of another 
trade. In our own day Mr. G. R. Sims has sung a ballad 
of the plumber. 

" The plumber came down like a wolf on the fold, 
With his pockets all bulging with silver and gold. 
For twenty-three hours he courted the cook, 
And twenty-four shillings he charged in his book." 

Now may the good Lord have mercy on plumbers, for they 
sadly need it ! My digression is ended. 

Twelve years have gone. Our wedding day is drawing 
near. I have one or two engagements in the Midlands. I 
have promised to preach at the parish church of Oundle, 
and the day following at Nottingham. These duties offer 
the opportunity of a little renewed honeymoon. We start 
on September 27. I have provided myself with a little 
wedding-day gift — a small work-case, suspended by two 
dainty leather straps. I have seen it in a shop in St. Paul's 
Churchyard ; it has taken my fancy ; it is dainty and prac- 
tical. I secrete it in my luggage. We travel together, my 
dear little wife and I. Though I am going on work, it is 



58 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



to us a holiday treat. Seldom, very seldom, had we the 
opportunity of such a trip for a day or two together. We 
start, then, with a happy sense of freedom and with pleasant 
memories. 

Our hosts at Oundle (the vicar and his wife) are most 
kind. I fulfil my promise ; and 1 enjoy the work of 
preaching in the fine and spacious and well-filled church. 
We stay at the vicarage ; and as the glad anniversary 
morning awakes I thrust my hand under the pillow, and as 
my dear little wife wakens I give her my love-token. The 
day is one of quiet gladness to us. We took the train to 
Peterborough, and we visited the cathedral. It was in a 
sense my first cathedral ; for though I had visited Chester 
and Bangor, Dublin and London and elsewhere, Peter- 
borough was the first cathedral which awoke in me the 
sense of the power of architecture as an appeal to the 
imagination. The view of its west front as it broke upon 
my sight in i860 gave me one of those unforgettable 
experiences from which we can date further progress ; and 
now, sixteen years later, it was to be a joy to both of us, 
and to be for ever associated in my memory with our last 
holiday together on that glad wedding anniversary. The 
day closed with our visit to Nottingham. The following 
day we returned home with a happy sense of a renewed love 
experience in our hearts. 

Shall 1 say that the memory of that little trip brings a 
bitter pang ? 

" Nessun maggior dolore 
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
Nella miseria." — Inf., v. 1 2 1-3, 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 



There is truth in Dante's thought ; but the memory of 
that glad little holiday together brings with the sadness a 
sense of peace. The last wedding day we spent together : 
it was a day of unbroken joy and mutual trust, a sealing of 
our love. 

The sad and solitary days were fast drawing near, though 
we knew it not. Here my narrative must break for a 
moment, for public movements must be followed if private 
sorrows are to be fully understood. These were days in 
which public attention was directed to the home difficulties 
of the poor. Society began to awake to needs of the less 
fortunate. The food of the poor was unsatisfactory ; ex- 
travagance in cooking added to the troubles of many homes. 
Ignorance was the cause of needless miseries. Let the girls 
in the schools be taught to cook, and with knowledge 
economy will come. The miseries which result from the 
extravagant methods of ignorance will be mitigated. Thus 
a campaign of enlightenment was set on foot. To help 
this campaign example was better than precept, and accord- 
ingly my dear little wife threw herself ardently into the 
work, and resolved to obtain from the Kensington School 
of Cookery a certificate of qualification. Armed with this 
she would be fitted to give lessons in the school and parish. 

What could we do — or what could I do, except give 
my sympathy to this laudable scheme ? Alas ! it was des- 
tined to prove, as it may be read, either a fatal success or a 
splendid failure. The certificates were won. They were hardly 
won. It meant that in addition to the normal household 
and parochial duties there was the long daily journey to 
South Kensington — in those days a matter of not much 



6o FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



less than an hour — followed by the arduous practise 
work, and accompanied by the need of continuous patient 
study. 

Before me as I write there are four certificates granted 
by the National Training School for Cookery. 

The first is a certificate for preliminary practice in cleaning, 
which declares that Mrs. Boyd Carpenter, having attended 
the course, obtained 400 marks out of a possible 400 — full 
marks, in fact. The second — the date of this is November 
18, 1875. Then follow two certificates obtained a fortnight 
later, one testifying that Mrs. Boyd Carpenter had obtained 
874 marks out of a total of 1000 in an examination by 
paper, and was entitled to a certificate of knowledge ; the 
other testifying that she had passed an examination in 
Artizan Cookery, intended for families spending from 7s. 
to 20J. in the purchase of food. In this examination she 
had obtained 640 marks out of a total of 800. In the 
examination for knowledge she was placed fourth in the 
First Grade. Lastly, there is the diploma of an associate. 
This is dated May 20, 1876. The date is the anniversary 
of our engagement twelve years before. 

This record of examinations leading up to the diploma 
extends over six months — six months of journeys, unwonted 
studies, fatiguing kitchen work, examinations, during which 
the demands of home duties continued ; and her poor dear 
heart was saddened and her life shadowed by the death of 
her father, to whom she was devotedly attached. 

The diploma was a victory, but a victory won at a fatal 
cost — work, anxiety, sorrow, bodily fatigue and mental 
anxiety : these were her portion ; and yet the enterprise 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 61 



for the good of the people of the parish was successfully 
carried out. 

The price, however, had to be paid : a sensible diminu- 
tion of energy followed. Often I watched her as she sat — 
memory of her father evidently occupying her mind — and I 
saw in her face what I had never seen before. I did not 
understand it then ; but it was the beginning of the weak- 
ness which at length undermined her strength. These, 
however, were only occasional relapses into meditative 
silence. When we took our little renewed honeymoon 
trip in September she brightened up, and there seemed to 
be no cloud over the dear home nest. 

November, however, told another story. The walk up 
from church tried her : her breathlessness on reaching 
home was painful, and elicited sympathetic words from our 
guests. In December she was confined to the house and 
to bed. The doctors hinted at heart weakness. January 9th 
was her birthday ; we tried to make a little festival of it 
in her room. I brought her a small stand for photographs, 
and I filled it with portraits of those she loved best. She 
was pleased, greatly pleased ; but the exertion of her 
pleasure was too much for her, and the next day showed 
diminished strength. We were only to have her for a 
week more. I did not even then, however, realize that she 
was to leave us — up to the last I was blind to what was 
coming. Only on the morning of the fatal day did I realize 
the danger, and then I could only cry to God. 

For the rest I must rely upon the little chronicle I 
wrote at the time. Let those to whom such simple home 
chronicles have no meaning, or little interest, leave the 



62 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



remaining portion of this chapter unread. Here only 
sympathy can understand. Indeed, I should not write 
further, but that there are some still alive who knew her, 
loved her and will understand. 

Here, then, are a few passages out of the sacred chronicle 
of those days of sorrow. 

" We said our little Psalm — the 23rd Psalm — over to- 
gether. We had read it together on our wedding night. 
She talked lovingly of all : she wished the children to have 
a keepsake : she mentioned little pieces of jewelry which 
she wished to go to one or another. She turned to one 
friend and said, c 1 can never repay you for all you have 
done, dear.' 

" I asked her if she would like to have the Holy Com- 
munion. c Yes,' she said, c and your mother. But let me 
have ten minutes' peace.' We kept still for ten minutes, 
while she thought and prayed quietly. We then had our 
last remembrance of the dear Christ's command together. 
I used her own little well-worn prayer book : it is now in 
my bureau drawer with other sweet, sad relics of the dear 
past. The poor dear child joined in the responses with 
hard, struggling breath. I can recall how her panting voice 
spoke the words of the confession. * The remembrance of 
them is grievous unto us : the burden is intolerable.' When 
I had given the blessing she said, 'Now, I will sleep.' 
I left her for a while. When I returned I found that her 
poor little heart was heavy with the thought of sin. ' I am 
not fit to go to that pure land,' she said. I said, c My 
darling, are you not forgetting the Saviour ? ' ' Oh no ! it's 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 63 



not that,' she said, ' but I have not lived the life I ought for 
Him/ My mother then came into the room, and to her 
she said, ' I am not fit to go : I have not been like you, 
working for Him.' My mother said, 4 It is not what we 
have done : He is the Saviour/ Shortly afterwards, my 
mother repeated the hymn, 6 1 heard the voice of Jesus 
say.' When the last line — c He has made me glad' — was 
reached, my little one said, c So glad, yes, He has made 
me glad.' 

" Once she said, when I laid my hand on hers and her 
eye fell upon her wedding ring : * Only twelve years ! 
I should like to stay longer and work with you, darling. 
That's not wrong, is it ? ' I stayed with her, and after a 
while she said, with the peculiar loving and tender tone 
which she always used in speaking of him to me, c I shall 
see your father,' and then, after a little while, she added, 
c and my father.' c Yes, darling,' I said, c and our Father.' 
Her little hand closed on mine as she repeated, ' Yes, and 
our Father.' 

" Two of the children, Jessie and Minnie, were brought 
into the room. She looked at them : her heart was full 
of loving wishes for them. To Jessie she said c Take care 
of father.' One thing she yearned for on their behalf; so 
she said to Minnie, * Be a good soldier of Jesus Christ.' 
The children were led away. The little invalid grew rest- 
less : she seemed to get no repose : no posture brought 
relief to the wearied frame. Now and again the thought 
of her unworthiness came back upon her : but at last, as 
though it were the close of a spiritual conflict, she said, 
6 1 have left it all with Jesus.' This was, as it were, the 



64 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



last message of her spirit to us : it summed up her faith 
and her hope. 

" There was only one scene more — the last. 

" I came upstairs : a friend and the nurse were in the 
room : soon after my mother joined us. I sat upon the 
bed, and took her hand in mine : it was cold, and the chill 
of it startled me. She saw that I was troubled about it : 
she drew her hand away and warmed or tried to warm it 
below the bedclothes, and then put it back in my hand. 
She was quite quiet, she nestled down upon the pillow. 
The door of the room opened, and the doctor stole in. 
Some one said to her : c The doctor is here, dear/ But the 
doctor said, i Let her alone ' ; and then to her, 4 Just as you 
are, Mrs. Carpenter/ 

" Then the nurse spoke a warning : c There is a change/ 
The little head pressed gently further down on the pillow. 
The breath came with a deep, hard-drawn sound : there was 
a little sigh : the eyes closed. All was over. My darling 
had gone. 

" The same moment my mother's arms were round me ; 
but I drew away from them and drew myself near to the 
silent face and form : a sort of fierce jealousy of possession, 
I suppose, was mine : I was claiming her against death and 
against all. 

"It was January 17, 1877." So far my little chronicle. 

A strange awe filled me during the next few days : I 
longed to be near her, yet I felt a worshipful reverence which 
made me shrink from going in alone. Once I remember, 
when a dear friend came to see me, I found myself saying, 



HARRIET CHARLOTTE BOYD CARPENTER 

[To face page 64. 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 65 



u Will you go in with me ? I want to go in, but not now 
alone." She went in with me : a few sacred moments we 
stood in the quiet room and looked down on the dear face, 
which seemed so childlike in its coffin. Sometimes I found 
courage to go in alone. 

A week after the day of loss we bore her worn-out 
body to the grave. The night before the funeral I went 
into the room, and by the coffin side I read again our little 
psalm. I thought of the first time I had read it to her, and 
of the last. I knelt down and prayed for the children — 
the children for whose sake she had cherished life. I 
kissed the coffin and bade her " Good night." The funeral 
day was a bright day with a clear sky : the promise of 
spring in winter : a Resurrection day, as a friend said to 
me. I was, however, like a man in a dream. I went 
through all the sad ceremonial as a man who dreams an 
ill dream, which he secretly hopes is untrue. In the carriage 
my youngest daughter, Annie, sat on my knee, and 1 held 
her by the hand when we reached the grave side ; but first 
the church was to be visited, for there the early part of the 
service was held. Eight girls — former confirmation candi- 
dates of mine, who used to meet quarterly for prayer and 
reading under my wife's presidency, followed the clergy 
who were to officiate. The introductory sentences were 
read as we entered the church. Then, as soon as the 
great congregation had settled into their places, the hymn 
which my mother had repeated by my wife's bedside was 
sung. The simple and familiar words took on new mean- 
ings. What memories were wakened and what hopes, 
when the words, " He has made me glad " were sung ! 



66 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



What a rich significance rose to my mind as I heard the 
line, "Now I live in Him ! " And what a vista of lonely 
days opened before my thoughts as the people sang, " Till 
travelling days are done ! " Mr. Stewart, my old vicar — a 
true and constant friend — was with us that day and read the 
psalm. Mr. Abbott, a neighbouring clergyman, who had 
travelled with us in Normandy, read the lesson. Then 
" Rock of Ages " was sung, and we left the church, with 
its crowd of black-clad and kindly people, and we drove 
slowly to Highgate Cemetery. 

At Highgate we found that throngs of people had 
followed us, and had gathered around the open grave. 
Mr. Stewart read the committal prayer. Canon Harvey of 
Hornsey — of whom I wrote in an earlier work — followed, 
and his voice rang out loud and strong, telling of the 
sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life. 
Then " Abide with me " was sung by the children, 
under the schoolmaster's guidance ; the crowd on the 
higher ground caught up the familiar words, and sang of 
the changeless One whose presence we craved in this ever- 
changing scene. I gave the blessing. Then we cast into 
the grave our last tribute of flowers. I plucked a little 
twig from the old yew which overhung the spot. 
We came home. A lonesome home it was. 
I met a man the other day : he had lost an arm in the 
war. I asked him if he felt pain : " None," he said, " but 
I feel as though the arm and hand were still there. It 
is the obstinacy of habit, I suppose." A like obstinacy of 
habit is with the bereaved, and it brings again and again 
the stab of pain. We receive a kind letter : the loving 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 67 



sympathy of it stirs the heart. The thought leaps up, 
" I will tell my dear one this : how pleased she will be " — 
and then slow-moving memory reminds one that the dear 
one is out of reach. It was so with me : the obstinacy 
of habit was too much for the benumbed brain. In that 
sad week I went almost bounding up the stairs : I turned 
the handle of the room door as I had done so often before 
with a hungry anticipation of welcome : I thrust the door 
open. Her coffin was there : it was a few days before 
they took her away. Tears would have been welcome to 
me then. Later I heard whispers. Kind friends repeated 
to me the gossip of the parish : " I was so calm " — 
" I was showing such Christian fortitude." Oh, poor heart 
of mine, poor sorrow-benumbed brain that could only 
monotonously go over scenes, words, phrases of the past. 
My calmness and my fortitude were little worth — I would 
fain have exchanged them for tears. 

A month later, 1 wrote : " I begin to awake, and I find 
that among the many voices that have cried to me of 
sympathy, there is One who has stood beside me : silent 
but pitying, and waiting in love till the wild fit of grief 
and the paralysis of astonishment have passed away, to 
take me by the hand and to lead me into His own chamber, 
and teach me the meaning of this mighty sorrow." 

It was no small responsibility to be left with eight 
children — ranging from eleven to three years of age ; but 
this was my lot. In January 1877 my eldest boy, Henry, 
was eleven, and my youngest child, Archie, was still under 
four. Between these two there were six others, two boys 
and four girls. I had an octave of children. 



68 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



When a great and devastating sorrow has fallen, one 
of the hardest matters to deal with is the contradiction 
between sentiment and duty. Sentiment seeks seclusion : 
it asks the indulgence of grief. " Let me alone," it cries 
to the irrepressible and exacting tasks of life ; " let me alone 
that I may bewail myself a little." But duty points with 
inexorable finger to the recurring obligations of life ; and 
duty says, " You cannot afford the luxuries of sorrow. 
The very tasks of life are hard but wholesome messengers 
of self-control. Such messengers came to me in plenty. 
The parish work had to go on : the sermons had to be 
prepared : there were still children in the schools, and 
needy and sick people in the houses. Duty called, and 
sentiment must take a back seat. And yet, if I recollect 
aright, it was not the severe face of parochial duty which 
exerted the greatest power over my mind and conduct at 
that time. There were other influences which came more 
subtly and more frequently upon me. There were the 
wistful faces of the eight children ! These spoke more 
often and more feelingly than outside tasks, and made an 
appeal to me against all indulgence of sentiment. 

After walking about the parish and fulfilling its 
task, I would thread my way from the crowded Holloway 
Road, past the few vacant fields, and climb the short and 
desolate ascent which led to Highbury Hill : I would 
enter my own front door : it was the evening hour when 
the children were neither tied by task nor yet committed 
to the long process of getting to bed. Was it not my 
duty to meet their unspoken wishes ? Must my sorrow 
fall like a cloud upon their sky ? It was natural for these 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 69 



young things to be gay. High spirits, exuberant animal 
life, the restlessness of young activities, these belonged to 
them. Avaunt, dark thoughts ! yes, even legitimate griefs. 
Cast no shadows over young hearts. Let laughter come 
and movement ! Invent some game, some pageant : let 
us play and think that we forget. 

So I steeled my heart against myself, and resolved that 
young life should claim its own. I knew that in the long run 
those dear children would understand the conflict of love, and 
perhaps understand that the heart does not love the less because 
it can place the duty of the present before the sorrows of the 
past, and the care of the living higher than regret for the dead. 

Yet how hard it was to bury one's grief, and to simulate 
a joyousness of abandon in children's games, and make the 
glad nursery rioting appear a genuine and unclouded time. 
Some of the difficulty of this hard task found expression 
in these lines. That child-joy was hard to bear, and harder 
still it was to pretend to share it, and so when the little 
rioters had gone to bed, and their merry voices had been 
hushed in slumber, this is what my heart said — 

O, merry little voices ! 

Ye children of the dead ; 
Your very laughter makes me sad, 

Since cold her hand who led 
Your doubtful feet each day along 

The threshold paths of life ; 
And silent are the lips of her — 

Your mother and my wife. 

O, merry little voices ! 

Your laughter makes me sad, 
For I am lone and cannot give 
The lessons that you had ; — 



7° 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



The lessons that her loving lips 

Each Sabbath day have taught you ; 

The thousand comforts and the joys 

Her loving hands have brought you. 

O, merry little voices ! 

I scarce have heart to play, 
Or join in romp and merriment 

In the twilight of the day ; 
For I think of her who came and sat, 

Plying needle, as I read, 
Or looking on with gladness at 

The mirth hour ere your bed. 

O, my merry little children ! 

You have kissed her your good night, 
And she sleeps beneath the yew-tree, 

And she waits the morning light. 
We shall play from room to room, 

But her eyes will look no more 
On our gambols and our frolic, 

With the smile of heretofore. 

O, merry little children ! 

A moment hush your play, 
And let us think a little now 

Of her who is away. 
Be silent, lest we rouse her, dears, 

She is but gone to rest, 
Till the angels shall awake her 

In the morning of the blest. 

O, happy little children ! 

If there we see her face, 
Familiar as in olden days, 

But glorified by grace ; 
Her eyes irradiant with the light 

Which cometh from our Christ, 
And looking on us with the love 

Of one whom God hath kissed. 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 71 



The children's hour ! It always came with its demand 
upon thought, or inventive energy. It was specially urgent 
in its demands when the holidays came, and days were long 
and the opportunities of excursion or amusement were 
limited ; but in providing amusement in the children's 
hour, I often had the vigorous and ungrudging help of my 
brother — the children's u Uncle Archie." Then we could 
devise a night's entertainment or a day's excursion with the 
certainty of much out-of-door fun or indoor merriment. 
Sometimes, at the seaside, we would take excursions over 
the downs, and give a " fearful joy " to the children by 
setting a group of them upon a rug and dragging 
them down some smooth slope to the level ground 
beneath — the experiment was full of thrilling emotion to 
the children, and ultimate permanent damage to the rug ; 
but it saved the summer afternoon from monotony, pro- 
voked wholesome laughter, and prepared the way for 
healthful sleep. When the days shortened and the nights 
demanded some amusement, again my brother's whole- 
hearted love of children and their games came to my aid. 
We then devised little farces, or commonplace domestic 
dramas, in which sometimes my brother and I were the 
only actors. We played the fool, and at times played it 
exceedingly well. What matter did it make, if we could 
bring happy laughter to the little ones ? 

Once, I recollect, our little farce turned on the de- 
linquencies of an erratic husband, who stayed out late — 
much later than his solemn-visaged wife approved. In order 
to emphasize the lateness of the hour, we sought something 
large and impressive to serve as the face of an accusing 



72 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



clock ; we found it in a great bedroom bath, whose white 
inner surface became the dial of the clock. Huge figures 
were marked out upon it, and the remorseless hands indi- 
cated that the midnight hour had passed. The scene when 
the belated man returned was the closing scene of the 
domestic drama, and a glorious scene of recrimination and 
riot and wanton destruction it was. Of course, we had 
other and more serious little plays, but this remains in my 
memory because of the unforgettable, monstrous, and 
menacing clock face, which played such a leading part till 
it fell with loud crash and prolonged vibrant murmurs in 
the scene of final ruin. 

Later, when the children were old enough to take part 
in these evening amusements, we prepared more ambitious 
entertainments. I remember one little piece which was 
played with considerable spirit. It was, I suppose, a 
melodrama ; it had a couple of lovers divided by hard 
circumstances, and swearing, of course, eternal fidelity. 
It included an unscrupulous old worldling and an emanci- 
pated woman, each of whom was supplied with an appropriate 
song. I give these, as they 5 serve to mark the state of 
public feeling, as we understood it, in 1879 — 

GREGORY GATHERTIN'S SONG 

Fm a limb of the law, and my name is Gathertin, 

And I was christened Gregory ; 
And I'm here to assever and prove and maintain, 

That there's nothing in the world like a lawyer's fee. 

Some talk of their drafts and cheques and bills, 

The large returns of the £ s. d. ; 
But commend me to briefs and settlements and wills, 

For there's nothing in the world like a lawyer's fee. 



MY HOME AND HOME SORROW 



Some seek pleasure at the cannon's mouth, 
And the glorious reputation of a K.C.B. ; 

But Pd be shot if I'd been at Waterloo, 
And I very much prefer a lawyer's fee. 

I'm a limb of the law, and now I seek 
Your hand, which can bring felicity. 

And I will love my dear Paraffin, 

With the love I bear to a lawyer's fee. 



THE WOOING OF ROSINA. 

My name Rosina Rawbones is, 

I am a spinster free ; 
I'd like to see the living man 

Who dared to marry me. 
I know their silly, ogreish ways, 

The stupid, awkward gawks ; 
That laugh and smoke and jest and joke, 

And blunder in their talks. 

Oh, dear ! the men that I have met, 

Such awful gabies are ; 
I would not be the slave of one — 

My freedom's better far. 
For I go in for woman's rights, 

High art, and the intense ; 
For Local Boards and Parliaments, 

To teach men common sense. 

The first who came to sue for me 

Was Captain Bunny Besom ; 
He looked at me distractedly, 

And said my love would ease him. 
I asked him could he prove to me 

The way the circle's squared ? 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



He put his eyeglass in his eye, 
And rudely at me stared. 

Oh, dear ! the men that I have met, 
Such awful gabies are, etc. 

Then came to seek my hand in love, 

An eminent M.P. ; 
He said that he'd resign his seat 

If he could marry me. 
I asked him if he would support 

A bill to let us vote ? 
He only stammered awkwardly, 

And gurgled in his throat. 

Oh, dear ! the men that I have met, 
Such awful gabies are, etc. 



VILLA LUCAS OR PRANGINS 



There are two classes of kindly disposed people in the 
world : there are those whose kindliness of feeling leads 
them to think of you and your needs, and what will most 
help ; there are others whose desire to be kindly leads them 
to wish to feel enjoyment with you. There is a certain joy 
of companionship in the hearts of these latter, but it is 
tinged with a measure of egotism : they wish to provide an 
enjoyment in which they will participate. Their feeling is 
very different from that which fills the heart of the man 
who sets himself aside, and has no thought of any self- 
gratification, but whose only wish is to devise something 
which will really benefit his friend. 

In the course of my life I have met with much kindness, 
but I have met with the kindness of the profit-sharing 
character more frequently than the wholly unselfish kind- 
ness. People like to be kind in the way that gratifies 
themselves ; they are less prone to the kindliness which 
thinks and acts in a self-detached way. 

I had not been long at Lancaster Gate when I met with 
a kindness of this rare and happy kind. There lived at one 
of the houses which stood at what I may call the gateway to 
the square in which the church stood, a man of remarkable 
ability and unspoilt kindliness of nature. He had a large, 

75 



76 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



round, rubicund face — the rosy hue of health shone in it ; 
he had a laughing eye, and the rare faculty of laughing at 
himself ; he was rich, generous and thoughtful. His readi- 
ness to help was never of the guinea-and-go-away sort. If 
- he was asked to help, he gave his mind as well as his money 
to the matter. 

When I had been at Lancaster Gate a few months, and 
the summer holiday was drawing near, this good parishioner 
of mine made the friendly inquiry : " How or where are 
you going to spend, your holiday ? " I said that I had 
no plans. He said : " Go to my villa on the Lake of 
Geneva ; tell me how many you will be, and I will 
arrange." It was a delightful prospect, but the reality 
surpassed my anticipations. The proposal was so kind, 
and the way in which it was made was so kind, that I 
accepted. 1 made up a little party ; it consisted of my 
mother and my mother-in-law, Mrs. Peers, my brother-in- 
law, Rev. W. H. Peers, and another friend, a lady whom I 
might call Matilda, for she scattered flowers in my life and 
subsequently became my wife. 

We left London and reached Paris ; there the two 
seniors of the party were disposed to rest, and my brother- 
in-law Peers had plans of his own. I took Matilda round 
the chief show places of Paris, and a long and tiring day we 
had ; but we were young and vigorous, and we thought 
little of rest in those days, and, if my memory serves me, 
we contented ourselves with one night in Paris, and the 
next night we journeyed on to Geneva. There we changed, 
and an hour's railway journey brought us to Nyon. We 
were all eager to see what sort of a house was to be ours for 



VILLA LUCAS OR PRANGINS 



the six or seven weeks of our holiday. After a drive of 
some half-hour or more, we turned from the highroad into 
the grounds of the villa. A long drive past meadows and 
under pleasant trees ended in a villa most curious to behold. 
The side it turned towards the park was a series of curves ; 
the house was brilliantly white in colour. We entered, and 
found ourselves in palatial quarters. I wonder whether I 
can give any adequate picture of this fascinating villa. The 
chief rooms looked out upon the lake. The centre of these 
rooms was the drawing-room, a large, oval-shaped room, 
tapestried in royal red. Beyond it, to the west, was the 
library ; adjoining the library was the Prince's room, so 
called, for the villa belonged, at one time, to Prince Jerome 
Buonaparte. From the broad terrace on the south we 
looked over the lake, and like a silver shield the summit 
of Mont Blanc showed gloriously white among the iron- 
grey mountains in the distance. The house was in every 
way a joy — ample rooms, comfortably, even luxuriously 
furnished ; a billiard-room, in which my brother-in-law and 
Matilda and I found solace in the evening. To the west, 
a tiny little harbour, with boats for excursions on the lake. 
To row into Nyon became part of our programme. 

In the boathouse I found a vessel of curious shape : 
two long wooden shoes, like small canoes, were fastened 
together by upright sticks, crowned by a saddle ; a paddle 
lay near at hand. It was a vessel which I was told was 
called a Polinsky. You sat on the saddle with your feet in 
the canoe-like shoes, and from the height of the saddle you 
plied the paddle and took your way over the water. The 
movement was pleasant, and the sense of power which was 



78 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



given you by height, made progress easy ; the balancing 
was not difficult in smooth water. It was a novel ex- 
perience to impel oneself over the water like a rider on 
his steed. 

We were well cared for. Servants appeared when re- 
quired, and disappeared in mysterious fashion. None of 
them lived in the villa : an underground passage connected 
with a dependance enabled them to retire to their own 
separate quarters. 

By day and by night, in sitting-room and bedrooms, 
we were reminded of the Napoleonic glory which had 
passed away ; for the imperial monogram was on the glass 
and china. The catastrophe of 1870-71 had wrought 
havoc ; and the villa, just as it was, with furniture and 
household goods, had passed into strange hands. My 
good friend at Lancaster Gate had shared in the pur- 
chase of the villa, and thus, ten or eleven years after the 
fall of the French Emperor, our quaint party were en- 
joying the rest and refreshment of this choice Swiss home 
of a Buonaparte. 

1 was fairly tired by my London work, and I was 
content to read, and ramble, and row upon the lake, and 
explore the neighbourhood. 

We made the acquaintance of a bright-faced, intelligent 
and thoughtful Swiss pastor : he had charge of the neigh- 
bouring village : I heard him preach to his blue-bloused 
village folk : his sermon showed a competent knowledge of 
modern thought and problems ; he spoke with clearness and 
appropriateness, neither obscurantist in ignoring difficulties 
nor pedantic in parading them before his village hearers : 



VILLA LUCAS OR PRANGINS 



he was spiritual and constructive in his teaching. He was 
good enough to call upon me : his great ambition was to 
show us his former parish among the hills near to the 
Dent du Midi. 

In an hour of amiable weakness we agreed to accom- 
pany him. We travelled by train to Montreux, where he 
met us : like a young antelope, he bounded up the steep 
path before. As he sprang upwards with easy and rapid 
strides, he assured us with a most ingratiating tone of voice 
that we would walk <c doucement " at first, and afterwards 
increase the pace. The " doucement " was quite enough 
for us as he climbed gaily towards u Les Avants." We 
reached the hotel in time for dinner, and there we spent 
the night ; but the restless spirit 'of the Swiss vicar grudged 
the loss of the early morning hours : he had us up betimes, 
and we entered the coffee-room at an hour unprecedently 
early for the waiters : there was no sign of breakfast, but 
our energetic guide made short work of all difficulties. 
Anything would do : bread and coffee would be sufficient. 
We were not consulted : so bread and coffee it was, and 
before we had achieved much, we were hurried to the 
road, and began the further climb to the summit of the 
mountain. We left Les Avants soon after eight : we 
toiled upward with desperate haste : our joyous-hearted and 
athletic guide gave us, inadvertently, occasional intervals 
of rest, when he visited some shepherd's hut and held 
animated conversation with his quondam parishioners. He 
fared better than we, for his friends gladly brought forth 
for him such refreshments as they had : buttermilk seemed 
to be the most usual or the favourite offering. We reached 



8o FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



the highest point of our toilful journey about twelve or one, 
and we then commenced the descent to the Rossiniere valley. 
Shall 1 ever forget the staggering incompetence of my foot- 
steps down the stony and steep path ? I felt like Jonathan, 
faint for lack of food. I was hardly master of myself : had 
we encountered some really dangerous obstacle or some 
damp and slippery piece of ground, I think my descent 
might have been involuntarily rapid. As it was, I practised 
the stagger victorious, and landed safely at the door of a 
picturesque inn, where we hoped to find rest and refresh- 
ment ; but, alas ! " man never is but only to be blessed." 
Judge of our dismay ! No food was to be had till it could 
be fetched from Chateau d'Oex — three miles further up 
the valley. My brother-in-law and I were quite exhausted ; 
we made some excuse and retired to our rooms, and lay 
down on the beds, faint, but expectant — hardening our- 
selves to wait with patience till food should come. The 
rest of that day is silence : we were fit for little ; we stayed 
at the little inn, and we longed for sleep; but sleep was coy 
and external circumstances were inimical : we had chosen an 
unfortunate day for our visit. The annual sale of the 
mountains was to take place, and the little village was 
crowded by shepherds and others who wished to bid for the 
right of pasture. They seemed too eager to sleep : at any 
rate they crowded under the windows the whole night 
through, and sleep, difficult to woo by over-tired men, fled 
away before the clamour of tongues. Our cheerful and 
athletic guide, the Swiss pastor, vanished. No doubt he 
was swallowed up by his former parishioners : we saw him 
no more. The next day we hired a vehicle and drove 



VILLA LUCAS OR PRANGINS 81 



through La Gruyere and reached some point on the railway, 
and returned to the Villa Lucas or Prangins. We had seen 
wonderful ranges of mountains : we had crossed over 
spacious slopes of rich grass land, and we had reached a 
cool and secluded valley, in which were crowded throngs of 
countrymen keenly interested in rural industries. The 
memory holds a blurred panorama of dazzling snow, cloud- 
capped heights, glowing or shaded green, but all is seen 
under a faint mist, for we beheld all with tired eyes, and 
my recollection of the scenery is dreamlike and splendid. 
I think we were both glad to be once more under a friendly 
roof by the shores of the quiet lake. 

That quiet lake, however, could grow stormy at times. 
One experience we had, which for the moment filled me 
with doubt, for a catastrophe was not impossible. We had 
rowed into Nyon, and on our way home we put the lady of 
the party in charge of the rudder while we pulled back. A 
sudden squall came down upon the lake, and when we 
were rounding the last point on our homeward way we 
met the full force of it. Just then our steerswoman cried 
that the task was too much for her, and asked one of us 
to take the rudder ; but to change places at such a moment 
was too perilous, and 1 said, " You must hold on." She 
did hold on gallantly, and we passed into quieter waters, 
and at last into the peace and protection of the little 
harbour. 

Another experience we had. Matilda and I once took 
the boat and rowed over to the other side of the lake. 
After a little ramble there we re-embarked and began our 
return journey. When we were half-way across 1 became 



82 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



aware of a difference in the power of our oars ; my wife's 
oar seemed suddenly to gain such an overmastering strength 
that the boat no longer kept a straight course. At first I 
thought she was trying to outpull me, but no extra effort 
of mine seemed to make any difference. At last the truth 
dawned upon us : we were in the swift Rhone current, and 
we had to allow for its force, and shape our course accord- 
ingly. It threatened to sweep us far to the westward, but 
by patient observation, and by discreetly applied force, we 
before long escaped the limit of the river current, and 
continued on our way quietly homeward. 

After six weeks of happy sojourn we turned our faces 
homeward. On our way we visited Strasburg, and spent 
a few hours at Metz. The pedantic officialism of German 
railway authorities forced itself upon our notice. It was 
a bitterly cold night, and my mother, who was no longer 
young, felt the cold greatly. When we reached one station 
the officials flung open the carriage door, and the keen wind 
streamed in upon us. I closed the door, whereupon an 
angry and arrogant official threw it open again, murmuring 
some threatening words. I closed it again, for it was not 
only a matter of discomfort for us all, but it was one of 
danger for my mother. Again the martinet mind of 
officialism worked against the comfort and safety of passen- 
gers, and so the little duel between us continued till we 
steamed out of the station. 

At Strasburg we went on the Sunday to the church which 
is honoured by the monument to John Tauler. We found 
ourselves in a church then used as a kind of garrison church. 
My wife and I were the only non-military people in the 



VILLA LUCAS OR PRANGINS 83 

church, which was rilled with soldiers. I think I was able 
to understand their pride when I saw that great company 
gathered there in German uniforms in front of the monu- 
ment which commemorated the exploits of Marshal Saxe. 
As I listened to the sound of men's voices, singing in slow 
and stately style some favourite chorale, there rushed upon 
me the feeling that their religion was one of race-faith. 
This company was praising a God who was a God of 
Germany : they were the subjects of a religion which was 
in essence Israelitish. It was not the voice of personal 
religion, of contrition and trust : it was faith in the God 
of their race and of their armies : it was solemn and impres- 
sive. The crucifix was upon the altar, but the highest 
Christian note was lacking in the service. Then I perceived 
the racial quality in German religious thought which has be- 
come more plain to us all since the war began. The faith in 
a divine favouritism has been the ruin of many lands ; and 
the world is slow to read the double motto of Christ's 
religion : u In Christ Jesus there is neither Jew nor Greek, 
barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free " ; and this other : " In 
every nation he that feareth God and worketh righteous- 
ness is accepted of Him " — two passages which find their 
parallel in another pair of sayings : " The Lord knoweth 
them that are His," and, " Let every one that nameth the 
name of Christ depart from iniquity." When will the 
world realize that righteousness is the highest and truest 
orthodoxy, and that it, and not race, counts in the counsels 
of God ? 



CLERICAL PECCADILLOES 

Some friends complained that in my former book I 
have said so little about my life as bishop. I do not know 
what my brothers in the episcopate may feel, but for my- 
self I should say that there is little to chronicle in the 
routine life of a bishop. It is only now and then that some 
affair yields some special or dramatic experience. Normally 
speaking, when the machine is working well there is little 
which affords motives or incidents demanding any record. 
Certainly it may be laid down as an axiom that when things 
are going well there is little to chronicle. Like the body, 
the diocese is unaware of its organs except when there is 
local disturbance. Then, of course, there is trouble, and 
then the head knows that there is trouble. The bishop, too, 
is like the coxswain of a college boat. If the race is suc- 
cessful it is the oarsmen who have won it. If the race is lost 
it has been lost through bad steering. If there is trouble 
in a parish, the question is, " Why doesn't the bishop do 
something ? " and as soon as he does anything the question 
is, " Why does the bishop interfere ? " 

Nevertheless the parishioners of any parish are generally 
very kind : they welcome the bishop when he visits the 
parish to open the church after restoration, to open the new 
schools, to dedicate the new window, or the new organ, or 

the new font. Then the flag floats from the church tower ; 

84 



CLERICAL PECCADILLOES 85 



the village band is out : the choristers robe themselves in 
surplices fairly free from ironmould : the bells are heard, 
their sweet clamour wakes the countryside : the boy scouts 
form a guard of honour : the service is to be " quite short," 
which means that the exhortation is to be abbreviated, but 
the hymns are to be multiplied, and the anthem elongated 
to the utmost capacity of the choir. It is all very hearty 
and earnest, and pleasing and kindly and exhausting. The 
time spent in reaching the church : the service followed by 
a luncheon — I beg pardon, a cold collation : the speeches, 
the introductions : the various few words to be spoken — 
to our good ladies' committee who arranged the refresh- 
ments : to the Church Lads' Brigade : to the children in the 
schools : these things mean a fatiguing though a happy day. 
The quiet of the railway carriage as you travel home is like 
peace after storm. You fling your poor body down : you 
think you will find refreshment in a book, but your jaded 
mind is irresponsive to the words on its inviting pages : the 
brain, denuded of nourishing blood, refuses to work. You 
endure the hour of the homeward journey, and you know 
that you have gone beyond the limit when work is naturally 
followed by recuperative sleep. You hope for some interval 
of repose, but your engagement-book inexorably tells you 
that to-morrow is as to-day, and even much more abundant. 

There is joy in work, notwithstanding its fatigues. The 
memory of the bright and hospitable faces ; the insight into 
this little leafy corner of honest and simple work ; the 
realization of its happy order and brotherly co-operation ; 
these things bring a glad content into the heart, and 
abundantly compensate for any fatigue. 



86 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



The limits of time and space make things difficult. 
Sometimes similar functions are arranged for the same day 
in parishes a goodly distance apart from one another. I 
remember having to institute and induct two vicars on the 
same day ; one function was in Leeds, the other some 
twenty miles distant by rail. I had fixed the times and the 
trains ; but the good people, with the new vicar, at the 
first function had some musical ambitions ; the arrangements 
were so elaborate that there was considerable preliminary 
delay ; processional hymns of inordinate length, an anthem 
of ambitious character, prolonged the service. At last, 
during the singing of a hymn, I went across to the vicar 
and said, " I must be at the Leeds Station in ten minutes." 
This I said to warn him that I, at least, must leave to fulfil 
my next engagement. Having given the warning, I went 
to the pulpit to preach my sermon. I caught my train and 
fulfilled the more distant engagement. But such expe- 
riences are a little trying to the nerves. The use of a 
motor considerably reduced the strain of these nervous 
experiences. 

But the real trials of a bishop's life come from the 
unreasonable and wicked men from whom even an apostle 
desired to be delivered. I think that a vicar who habitually 
drinks may be classed among the wicked. How far his 
parishioners may be classed among the unreasonable, let 
the following plain, unvarnished tale declare. 

In telling the tale 1 give fictitious names of parson and 
parish. Certainly the experiences of a bishop's life are 
various. Some, I believe, who read my former book, 
thought that I had done scant justice to these episcopal 



CLERICAL PECCADILLOES 87 



experiences. I feel tempted to expostulate, and to say, 
" Friend, if you do not know, can you not realize, 
that to write explicitly of a bishop's experiences is to run 
the risk of wounding some worthy soul ? The ordinary 
record of a bishop's doings is not very interesting. Would 
it amuse or edify you very much to have a chronicle of 
miles travelled, of confirmations held, of villages visited, of 
knotty questions disentangled ? " No, dear reader, you wish 
something more piquant than these things. Precisely so, 
yet the piquant things are the painful things, which, being 
told, may bring hurt to some sensitive spirit. 

I can only touch on such things in a general way ; or 
shall I say that it may be profitable to generalize my expe- 
rience in some imaginary incident, which can be justified by 
memories which must not be allowed to become explicit ? 

I wonder what is the most demoralizing habit among 
the many habits which demoralize men. Some will say 
drink, others debauchery. I am inclined to say debt. I 
have had to deal with all. Drink demoralizes, but it is a 
strange thing that when a parson drinks a large number of 
his parishioners combine to protect him. They feel that 
the weakness is very human ; it does not make a man hard ; 
on the contrary, when he has indulged he is companionable, 
amusing, and magnanimously lenient to offenders. " He> 
drinks, but he is a good sort," is the thought of many who 
know him to be generous and kindly, none too proud to 
crack a joke or share a glass. These judgments are very 
partial : they lose sight of the degradation arising from a low 
animalism ; they forget the inconsistency between life and 
profession ; and they breed a kind of inverted chivalry, which 



88 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



feels bound to protect the offender from his bishop. Thus 
it may come to pass that a clergyman may be a notoriously 
intemperate man, and for years he may entrench himself 
behind the defences which the good-natured of his people 
raise on his behalf. Here is a case which I give in veiled 
form. 

The vicar was a short, stout man, with rubicund, but 
not dissolutely rubicund, face ; he wore the decent black of 
his cloth. Whatever air he assumed towards his parish- 
ioners, he had a furtive air in his bishop's presence. He 
was not one of the bland and insinuating men who are sure 
to edge themselves to the front at a diocesan gathering, and 
to assume an air of deferential familiarity with the bishop. 
On the contrary, the stout little vicar hides away among the 
outskirts of the throng, and shows a propensity for avoiding 
the episcopal glance. He drinks ; he knows that he drinks ; 
he knows that his people know that he drinks ; he has a 
suspicion that the bishop may know it too. He keeps in 
the background. Can we call it modesty that keeps him 
there ? Hardly, but yet — and here is where the pathos of 
it comes in — it is humility of a sort. It is the self-conscious 
humility which feels that he is a stained creature called to 
mingle among his brethren who are not smirched as he is. 
Poor soul, he cannot pity himself, but he can be painfully 
conscious of self. You, who know what is wrong, begin to 
wonder what will be the end of such a man's career. 

I will tell you. He will go on for a time, the victim of a 
growing habit, till at length his conduct causes a shock to the 
public conscience ; then the parishioners will feel aggrieved. 
They will resent his action as though he had betrayed a 



CLERICAL PECCADILLOES 



89 



trust for which they, as well as he, were responsible. What 
has he done ? Well, perhaps he has been so much the 
victim of his habit that he cannot walk straight up the aisle 
as he goes to read the prayers. Perhaps he will be so 
fuddled and muddled in brain that he picks from his store 
of MS. sermons an inappropriate discourse ; or perhaps, his 
brain being sodden, he forgets what sermon he preached 
in the morning, and, with evidently confused mind and 
markedly inarticulate delivery, treats his people to the same 
discourse in the evening. 

The more conscientious parishioners are aroused ; but 
I must go on with my story. The clergyman, whom I 
have described, was vicar of Umpleton Lackwater. 

The village of Umpleton Lackwater was situated near 
to a great coal area, where several mining villages are to be 
found. The vicar, the Rev. David Drinkwater, was, as I 
said, a stout, short man ; he had a round face and scant 
sandy hair ; he had manners which were popular in the place : 
he did not stand strongly on ceremony. His ministrations, if 
not apostolic, were decently sufficient ; for a time no criticisms 
or complaints were heard, but it seems probable from what 
followed that his intemperate habits were well known, and 
either unmurmuringly taken for granted, or condoned with 
an amused generosity. But it fell on a day — an Easter 
Sunday, to wit — that he overstepped the limits of official 
parochial patience ; and there my knowledge of the matter 
began. A deputation, consisting of the churchwardens and 
three or four other parishioners, waited upon me with a 
formal complaint. 

" Ower parson was that drunk, he were, on Sunday — 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



Easter Sunday that was — that he couldn't walk straight 
up the aisle. Yes, and he preached the same sermon in the 
evening to what he had preached in t' morning — not that 
he knew what he was doing ; he were that drunk, he were." 

So the solemn complaint was officially lodged ; the 
six sturdy parishioners supporting the charge with due 
emphasis. 

I told them that, as the charge was so explicit and 
serious, I would forthwith appoint a commission of inquiry. 
This I did, selecting some six responsible men— three of 
them being clergymen and three laymen. But before "the 
commissioners could meet I received a letter from the 
official complainants, the gist of which was as follows : they 
had seen the accused vicar, and he had promised to amend 
his ways, and therefore they desired that the matter should 
be dropped. 

My reply was the only one possible. I told them that 
the case was too serious to be treated in the way they 
proposed ; that as they had made explicit charges, it was 
needful that they should be investigated. The matter, 
having been brought forward seriously and formally, could 
not be ignored ; the inquiry must go forward. The 
commissioners, accordingly, visited the village to hold the 
inquiry ; but what was their reception ? They were re- 
ceived with black looks ; stones were flung at them ; it 
was impossible to hold the inquiry, for no witnesses were 
forthcoming. 

So far, in an attempt to do justice, we had met with 
failure. But — and here is the astonishing witness to the 
instability of some human minds — within six weeks the 



CLERICAL PECCADILLOES 



same half-dozen solemn-faced parishioners were again at my 
door, to complain of the drunken habits of their vicar. 
This time, I am afraid that 1 did not receive them with 
much sympathy. I told them that they were not the sort 
of men I could help ; that it was useless to come whimper- 
ing and complaining to me, when they had neither the 
courage to support their own cause, nor loyalty to support 
me in doing my duty. So I gave them a lecture, and told 
them they could go home, and that they need not complain 
to me till they knew their own minds and were prepared to 
do their duty. 

I was in despair ; here was a parish put out of effective 
work by the ill conduct of the vicar, and the fatal and weak 
good nature of the people. Happily, however, the law had 
put a new weapon into my hands : the Clergy Discipline 
Act had been passed. 

Things were in this unsatisfactory condition, and con- 
tinued so till an opportunity came which the new Act 
enabled me to use ; so when it came I seized it with 
alacrity. One morning I read in the Yorkshire Post that 
there had been a disgraceful scene in the parish of Umple- 
ton Lackwater. A little child had died, and the sorrowing 
parents followed their little one to the grave ; but the vicar 
was so helplessly intoxicated that he could not even read 
the service correctly ; he outraged the feelings of the 
mourners by praying for a joyful corruption instead of a 
joyful resurrection ; he shocked public sentiment by his 
helpless condition and his total disregard of the decencies of 
life and the solemnity of the occasion. I at once sent a 
trusty official to the parish ; he gathered evidence, which in 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



the shocked condition of village feeling was easy enough 
then. Once possessed of the evidence, I cited the vicar to 
appear before a properly constituted court. He failed to 
appear ; he had no defence. The case went against him, 
and I deprived him of his benefice. 

But the affair was not ended. The law required that, 
after an interval of three weeks, a second court should be 
held, at which the bishop could, if no difficulties or objec- 
tions had arisen in the interval, declare that the benefice was 
vacant. This second court was, of course, an open court, 
and public notice was given that it would be held on a 
certain day. It was held at Leeds, and to Leeds I went for 
the closing scene of this little drama. Judge of human 
nature, measure once more the unexpected windings of that 
inexplicable mechanism, the mind of the average man. At 
the court, the six stalwart, imperturbable, self-contradictory 
official parishioners appeared. Calm, undismayed and un- 
ashamed, they commenced as soon as the court was open to 
lay before me their petition that I would not deprive them 
of their vicar. One man more unctuous, and perhaps less 
intelligent, than the rest, came armed with his Bible. With 
a pleading and pathetic voice, he said : " I read in the 
Bible, c Let it alone this year also.' Give him a chance to 
change — c Let it alone this year also ! ' " 

I said : " You are too late. I cut it down three weeks 
ago." 

The plea was monstrous ; the case was a scandalous 
one ; for six years the misconduct of this vicar had been 
like an open sore in the neighbourhood ; for six years 
every attempt to deal with the matter had been baffled and 



CLERICAL PECCADILLOES 



evaded ; the vacillating conduct of the responsible guardians 
of the church had been an obstacle to justice ; it was im- 
perative that the standard of clerical life should be vindicated. 
The world suffers much from the wicked, but it suffers ten 
times more from the weak. Life would be purer, better, 
more wholesome and more happy, if virtue and right were 
not perpetually handicapped by weak and gushing senti- 
mentalism. The weakness of these stout Yorkshiremen 
was the same as the weakness of indiscriminating alms- 
givers. The sentimentalist insists on turning on the tap, 
but he deprecates stopping the leak. 

I felt no inclination to pay heed to the pleadings of 
men so weakly inconsistent, so hopelessly illogical as these 
parishioners of Umpleton, and I declared the benefice 
vacant. The result was that an active and conscientious 
vicar took the place of a self-indulgent slacker ; work in 
the parish became active, and the reproach of the past 
was done away. 

The story is one which can be repeated by the experi- 
ence of other bishops. It deals with an offence which of 
all others is most difficult to deal with. Intemperance as 
an offence is illusive : it can excuse itself by a hundred 
subterfuges. The offender is a victim of wicked mis- 
representation ; he did not stagger as a drunken man 
staggers ; he stumbled, it is true, but it was due to a 
passing giddiness which resulted from a weak digestion ; 
or he was the victim of a foolish indiscretion — a glass of 
wine, taken for good nature's sake, but unwarily taken on 
an empty stomach ; such a man as he was never even on 
the borders of intoxication before ; his wife can testify to 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



his abstemious habits. An experienced chancellor said to 
me that he never would convict a clergyman of intemper- 
ance, because he knew how many mistaken and false 
accusations had been made on the subject. This is one 
view of the matter ; another view is that there is probably 
in every diocese a small percentage of such cases, and that 
every one of such cases means paralysed activity in the 
parish, and throughout the neighbourhood a general decline 
in the spiritual influence of the clergy. These „ cases, and 
the scandals of a more flagrant character, are fatal to the 
success of Church work. Happily, these gross scandals are 
rare. I can only recall three or four cases which came 
under my own knowledge, and only one of them was of an 
aggravated character. 

Of less gross offences, perhaps the most troublesome 
is the offence of the self-willed parson. This is the 
class of man who is a born egotist, who has not the 
slightest apprehension of his duty to win men by the 
spirit of gentleness and love. He never asks what will 
profit his people, but only what will please himself ; he has 
a perverse way of believing that any change which will give 
pleasure to himself must prove profitable and, indeed, 
pleasant to his people. He reminds me of the man who 
liked pepper in his soup, and who accordingly proceeded to 
pepper the contents of the soup tureen on the plea that he 
supposed everybody liked pepper with their soup. 

One such parson I remember ; he was a strange mix- 
ture ; he had a certain rough courage : he had shown 
conspicuous pluck in attempting to rescue life. He be- 
came vicar of a populous parish in a northern town. Soon 



CLERICAL PECCADILLOES 



we had trouble. The parish was poor ; its scant resources 
placed a heavy burden on the churchwardens, who were 
responsible for church expenses. Cleaning, lighting, heat- 
ing, repairs, payment of organist and vergers, made up items 
of considerable annual expenditure. 

But the vicar had large ideas ; his imaginative ambition 
was unchastened by the base consideration of ways and 
means. An organ in a London church was for sale ; it was 
an organ that had some historic associations : the famous 
Father Smith, it was whispered, had had some share in its 
making. The vicar's soul took fire — Why should not the 
church of St. Boanerges own such an organ ? That it 
already possessed an organ was an irrelevant detail — that 
there was no money to pay for it was a matter of no conse- 
quence. So the adventurous vicar bought the organ ; 
the organ was brought down from London ; it was erected 
in the church, which now could boast of two organs. Then 
came the bill : how was the bill to be paid ! An organ was 
clearly an item of church expenses : the churchwardens 
must pay. The churchwardens declined : they had not 
ordered the organ. The vicar had acted on his own re- 
sponsibility : the vicar must find the money. Could he ? 
Then came to the vicar a happy thought. Reckless men 
are often fertile in expedients : hence the vicar's happy 
thought ! There were schools in the parish ; the schools 
had school buildings ; buildings in a large town constitute a 
valuable asset. The vicar was chairman of the school com- 
mittee ; the few hundred pounds required for the organ 
could easily be raised by mortgaging the school premises • 
With a happy confidence the vicar brought the matter before 



9 6 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



the school committee : to his surprise and disgust the com- 
mittee did not agree to such a proposal. Inquiries were 
addressed to the bishop. The reply was inevitable : the 
schools and school buildings were a separate trust : such 
property could not be mortgaged on behalf of expenditure 
in church. The vicar was baffled, but when he was at his 
wits' end deliverance came ; a rich man bought the organ 
and claimed it as his own, but allowed it meanwhile to 
remain in the church. 

But the vicars propensities soon led him into further 
trouble. When he was in London he saw a picture ; it 
would look nice in the church : it was bought and sent 
down. Another time, he saw some handsome banners ! 
How gloriously they would adorn the chancel. Bills came in 
to the churchwardens ; expenses grew ; receipts did not ; the 
bank account was overdrawn ; the bankers called attention 
to the state of the church account. There was friction, 
followed by dispute. The bishop was appealed to. A 
meeting was held at the bank to look into affairs. The 
vicar and churchwardens met the bishop in the bank par- 
lour — one of the bank's officials being present. After some 
altercation, an arrangement was made. The churchwardens 
were to have charge of the ordinary offertory — indeed, of all 
offertories except those which were announced beforehand 
for a specific object. The churchwardens were satisfied : 
they left the bank contented and even hopeful. 

But these hopes were destined to disappointment. 
They had forgotten the artifices of the extravagant. The 
funds which they relied upon were soon and frequently 
bespoken ; for the vicar would give notice that the offertory 



CLERICAL PECCADILLOES 



next Sunday would be for the new banners — for a picture — 
for an altar cloth. Thus once again the wardens were 
reduced to despair and found themselves face to face with 
bankruptcy ! 

Meanwhile the vicar, light-hearted, optimistic, not much 
troubled with conscience, thought to increase the resources 
of the church by booming it as the abode of " advanced V 
services. Any innovation in ceremonial, any novelty in vest- 
ment, any daring experiment in service or song which 
occurred to his active mind was attempted. Try ritualism 
was, for this epoch, his motto ! Moved by this spirit of new 
enterprise, he dreamed dreams of notoriety as a champion 
of advanced catholicity. He took a journey : he visited a 
peer who was well known for Catholic proclivities — in his 
presence the vicar tried to pose as an ardent follower of the 
Ritual movement. The sham earnestness did not deceive 
the nobleman. The lion's skin did not sufficiently hide the 
animal beneath ; the vicar returned disappointed. He had 
made a bid for support and sympathy : he hoped for 
notoriety. It was after this vain attempt that I had an 
amusing interview with this chameleon-like vicar. 

I met him by appointment at the Queen's Hotel, Leeds. 
He began to explain some of his eccentricities in the con- 
duct of divine worship. He pleaded that he had been 
exposed to great pressure on the part of others. 

" You don't know how severely I have been pressed to 
do these things." 

"Yes," I said, a no doubt ; but you were not pressed 

to go and see Lord . You sought him ; he did not 

seek you." 

H 



98 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



His face fell : he saw that he could no longer shelter 
himself under the plea of pressure. 

1 looked at him, and I said : " I should have some 
sympathy with you and respect for you, if you were a born 
ritualist ; but you have no constitutional fitness for such a 
role. God meant you to be a muscular Christian." 

He was silent and said : " Why do you say that ? " 

" Why do I say that ? " I replied. " Go over there and 
look at your face in the glass and you will see what I mean. 
Is that brow, that structure of face, the face of a man 
naturally given to the love of ceremonial and the reverence 
for tradition and authority ? You know what I say is true. 
You have no genuine disposition towards this way of pre- 
senting the Christian faith to your fellow-men. If you 
were following a natural bent it would be different : you 
are affecting a pose not your own : you are not honest with 
yourself in this matter." 

He looked at me, and then he said : " I never supposed 
that you thought about your clergy like that." 

I replied : " I have lived long enough to know some- 
thing of men's characters. Faces tell their tale. There are 
men with whom I disagree and yet whom 1 can respect ; 
but I cannot have respect for a man who is cast for one role 
and seeks for notoriety by playing another. Be a man : 
you have shown qualities of physical courage : there is a 
place for you and work for you : God has called you to it. 
Be a man and do it. Above all, be true to yourself." 

The interview ended. I hoped something from it, but 
I feared the influence of the false atmosphere in which he 
had been raised. His grandfather had been a tradesman 



CLERICAL PECCADILLOES 



99 



whose descriptive powers had been amazing ; his father had 
a gift for self-advertisement. The young man had breathed 
the air of unreality since his childhood. 

Shortly after the interview I have described, he left 
the diocese for a benefice in another part of England. He 
gained a strange ascendancy over the mind of a young man 
of large means : he became involved in litigation and at 
length disappeared from social view. It was a pity : one 
felt that good material of life had been wasted. 

It is not, however, the men whose faults become con- 
spicuous and whom retribution smites with hard blows who 
are most to be pitied. There is a worse punishment than 
that of social failure and public disgrace. I tremble often 
for the man who escapes such retribution, whose adroit- 
ness enables him to maintain his public credit, and who is 
tempted to measure his character by his success. Some- 
where there must be an awakening of self-revelation for 
such. It is sad to mark those whose sins go before to 
judgment ; but it is sadder still to contemplate those whose 
sins follow after, 

It is one of the painful experiences of life to meet with 
those who possess the happy art of evading the painful or 
public consequences of their actions, and perhaps still more 
painful is it to discover suddenly that a life which has 
seemed decent, decorous, praiseworthy is only so in seeming : 
beneath the comely surface there lurk the powers of hell : 
dead bones lie beneath the sumptuous stonework. 

I have met more than one instance of this unsuspected 
moral rot. I can recall one figure — a clergyman whose 
works seemed to praise him. He bore himself well : no 



ioo FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



coarse lines of self-indulgent habits marred his face, which 
was meagre rather than fleshy ; but beneath the surface of 
his life there were the forces of ill. Fraudulent manage- 
ment of accounts, and a wicked habit of corrupting lads 
marked the underside of his life. To tell his story would 
be to tell one of the most extraordinary experiences of my 
life, but it would be too long to tell, and almost unbelievable 
when told. 

Perhaps one narrative may serve to illustrate another 
form of fault to which a certain class of character is liable. 
It ought not to be met with in clerical life, but I regret to 
say that I have met with two or three examples of it. The 
fault is the inability to understand the requirements of the 
most ordinary code of honour. 

In two cases which I can recall, this fault took the form 
of a readiness to take advantage of a legal opportunity to 
repudiate an honourable obligation. 

But to my story. In the diocese of Ripon there are not 
many good livings (as they are called) in the bishop's gift. 
Judge, therefore, of my pleasure when a benefice fell 
vacant which the official calendar of the diocese declared 
to be worth nearly £900 a year. Visions of the happi- 
ness which I could bring to the heart and life of some 
good, hardworking clergyman rose before my fancy ; but 
vain are the hopes of men, and their visions of good 
pass away like the dreams of a night ! The benefice was 
a mother benefice : scattered round it were three or four 
daughter parishes : once the mother church had been re- 
sponsible for the spiritual oversight of a large district : 
then in the various hamlets churches had sprung up, and a 



CLERICAL PECCADILLOES 101 

separate parson had been assigned to each : these newer or 
daughter parishes were but scantily endowed : the richest of 
them could only boast £140 or £150 a year. When the 
vacancy in the mother church occurred, envious and eager 
eyes were cast at the goodly endowment it possessed. 

My first intimation of the greedy desires of these 
villages came from a squire who was interested in one of 
the villages. He visited me, and this was practically what 
he said : i I live in the village of X, but I pay tithes to the 
amount of £160 a year to the vicar of the mother church ; 
thus, though I pay this goodly sum each year, my own vicar 
gets no benefit from it ; it all goes out of my own parish 
into the coffers of the grasping mother church." I confess 
that it seemed to me that he had a genuine grievance. I 
promised that the matter should be a looked into." 

Once the spirit of readjusting the income was aroused, 
it spread. The claims of the village of X had been set 
forth : the claims of Y and Z, two other dependent villages, 
found advocates, and I am not sure whether another village 
(say W) did not advance similar claims. 

A commission of investigation was appointed : sober 
clergymen and staid laymen of the neighbourhood met, 
considered and discussed the problem. After a somewhat 
lengthy inquiry, they presented their report. They advised 
that the claims of the daughter parishes should be met, 
and that the mother church should be stripped of some 
half of her revenue. Alas ! for my goodly benefice ! The 
plum became a very small one : it was hardly a damson 
now. Where I had hoped to be able to bestow a benefice 
of nearly £900 a year, I found that I was the patron of a 



io2 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



benefice of a little over ^400. There was worse to follow. 
The £400 was but a scanty endowment for a benefice which 
had a house more suited to an income of £800 or £900 ! 

My choice of clergy was limited : the benefice could 
only be held by a man who had either good private re- 
sources or small responsibilities. I offered it to a bachelor 
who had worked hard and well in a large populous parish. 

I explained to him that, though in the official list the 
benefice was described as worth between £800 and £900, 
it was, as I could offer it to him, only worth about 
half that sum. I explained to him the reductions in the 
value of the benefice recommended by the commission 
and approved by the various Church authorities. I told 
him that the legal execution of the proposed changes could 
not be carried out during the vacancy of the benefice, for 
the vicar of the old parish must be a consenting party. 
Hence I explained to him that I offered him the living on 
the understanding that he would join in giving effect to the 
alienation of income which had been recommended and 
approved. He accepted the benefice on the conditions 
named. 

But as soon as he was in possession he began to demur 
to the sacrifice of income ; he delayed : he sought evasions : 
he was ready to argue against his honour. I began to fear 
that there might be a failure to fulfil the arrangement which 
would benefit the daughter parishes and to the fulfilment 
of which we were all in honour pledged. I confess that 
my confidence was shaken in the character of a man who 
was ready to make use of a legal position to evade an 
honourable understanding and who for a money advantage 



CLERICAL PECCADILLOES 103 

was willing to break his word. It was the discovery of 
dead men's bones beneath a whited shrine. 

A similar case I had which was as dishonourable and 
more callous. It was as follows — 

It was considered desirable to unite two benefices. 
Accordingly it was arranged that on the next vacancy of 
either of the two benefices, the vicar of the other should 
become vicar of the joint benefices, which would then 
become one united parish. After a time the vicar of one 
parish, which we may call A, wished, as he was growing 
infirm, to resign on pension ; he was entitled under Act 
of Parliament to a pension amounting to one-third of the 
value of the benefice he held : this meant that he might 
receive perhaps ^100 a year — not a very extravagant pension 
for a man after some forty years of service. The vicar of 
the other parish, B, became the vicar of the joint parishes 
of A and B, and as such he was to receive the income of A 
as well as that of B. But judge of our amazement when the 
new vicar refused to pay the pension to the resigning vicar 
— and was prepared to stand for his legal rights on the 
ground that the Act of Parliament assigned to him the in- 
comes of both the former separate parishes. What the final 
interpretation of the law would have been, had the matter 
come into the courts, I cannot say, but the claim and plea 
made by the vicar of B shocked the moral sense of every 
right-minded man. Before any steps could be taken the 
dear old vicar of A, a man of godly conversation and 
well learned withal, settled the matter by dying peacefully. 

Lack of sensitiveness to the claims of honour may, it 
seems, co-exist with a certain measure of what appears to 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



be genuine piety ; but I confess that it is not a quality of 
piety which appeals to my respect. 

Debt. — There are many clergymen who have, on very 
slender means, kept out of debt by a hard and heroic course 
of self-denial. The story of uncomplaining suffering, of 
straitened means, of inadequate food, of a life unmitigated 
by occasional recreation, will, I suppose, never be written ; 
but in many vicarages this kind of painful drama has been 
enacted. In quiet country parsonages have lived and died 
men and women whose lives were one prolonged self-denial, 
and who have gone silent and unapplauded to the grave. 

There have been real heroes among the clergy, and the 
bulk of them, to their honour be it said, manage to live and 
to bring up their families with credit — often and often upon 
very scanty means. 

But of course there are exceptions, and these were occa- 
sions of the greatest trouble and perplexity. An illustration 
or two will, perhaps, prove the best way of showing the 
difficulties created by the impecunious and extravagant parson. 

The Rev. Samuel Spendall — the name is, of course, 
fictitious — was the vicar of a country parish. The parish 
consisted of a long, straggling village, and had a population 
of, perhaps, iooo souls. It was in a healthy neighbour- 
hood ; the country was undulating, and a long ridge of 
hills led the way to fresh and invigorating moorland. The 
vicar had a wife and a small family. The income of his 
benefice was moderate ; it was not among the poverty- 
stricken benefices which are regularly helped from diocesan 
funds, neither was it among those which set the incumbents 
well above the pressure of want. It was a benefice of about 



CLERICAL PECCADILLOES 



105 



average income, and the vicar added to the income by 
opening his house to pupils. For a time I heard nothing 
of any impending trouble ; parish affairs seemed to pursue 
the even tenor of their way ; but one day a good and 
kindly minded layman called upon me and explained his 
benevolent errand. 

" I am endeavouring," he said, " to collect privately a 
sum of money to defray our vicar's debts. He owes a 
considerable amount of money, and I am out to collect 
enough to set him free of debt. 

I looked at this well-disposed and energetic philanthro- 
pist, and I said, cc You are doing one of the kindest things 
which a layman can do for a clergyman. The only thing 
which I would ask of you is, that you would make sure 
that you know all the debts of your vicar ; for my expe- 
rience is, that a man in debt never tells the whole truth — - 
perhaps because he cannot, perhaps because he will not." 
And then I asked, " How much does your vicar owe ? " 

The_ answer was, " Fifteen hundred pounds." 
"Well," I said, "I am ready to help, and I will con- 
tribute to your fund, but on the understanding that we can 
really clear up the whole debt, and avoid any future trouble 
in the matter." 

The good layman quite agreed with me, and promised 
to do his best to obtain a full, clear and exhaustive statement 
of the debts. 

The fifteen hundred pounds was raised, and the debts, 
it was believed, were paid ; but within a twelvemonth the 
Rev. Samuel Spendall was in the impecunious position of 
owing upwards of four hundred pounds. 



io6 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



How did such a thing happen ? It happened because 
the habits of the Rev. Samuel Spendall were egregiously 
lacking in the sense of common honesty. In the village he 
owed money to the butcher and the baker and other small 
tradesmen ; these bills were never paid : the accounts ran 
on from week to week and month to month ; but the Rev. 
Samuel Spendall had no scruple about spending money on 
his own pleasures. The neighbouring town had attractions, 
and he found reasons and excuses for visiting it with more 
than necessary frequency ; and when he did so, it pleased 
him to have one or more members of his family with him. 
His dignity required that they should travel first class. 
Arrived at the town, there were shops where money could 
be spent : there were also attractive entertainments — a 
concert, or a play. Why not stay and enjoy ourselves ? 
It is true that there is no late train to take us home ; but 
there are hotels ; and, after all, it is more comfortable to 
sleep in town than to endure a long, slow, cold, late journey 
at night. In the entanglement of such an attractive pro- 
gramme the bills of the local tradesmen were forgotten, 
or, with the happy optimism of the impecunious, they were 
waived aside as irrelevant and inconvenient. So from week 
to week the habit of unconscientious heedlessness went on. 
Bills were ignored, debt accumulated, and the one person 
who was never worried about it was the debtor himself. 

Debt is worse than drink in this way. Drink has a 
habit of bringing a man to book : the night's debauch or 
the day's excess is followed by some physical warning ; 
disagreeable pains in head or elsewhere act as warning 
angels ; but debt can be contracted, and no physical mentor 



CLERICAL PECCADILLOES 



gives warning. The morning after the night of extrava- 
gance breaks as cloudlessly as though there were no trouble 
in the world : the head does not throb ; the sight of - food 
does not repel ; there are still things to be enjoyed ; the 
newspaper tells of some new attraction at the theatre or 
the music hall. As for the little bits of blue and white 
paper which chronicle the debts, they can be put away. 
We will attend to them later on : we will have a regular 
business day and clear up all the accounts ; but not to-day. 
A famous pianist or actor is visiting the neighbouring town : 
we really ought not to miss the opportunity ; and so, the 
money which ought to go to the butcher or baker or the 
laundry woman, is spent in travelling first class, listening 
to concert or play, and tipping the waiters at the hotel. 

Meanwhile the parson's influence in the parish has been 
deprived of all moral value. The people might condone a 
lapse into intemperance : to be fond of a glass is a human 
frailty ; it is understood on all hands, and a man in his 
cups becomes genial, sympathetic and confidential. If the 
parishioners occasionally shake the head, or wink the eye, 
or make a little tossing movement towards their mouths, 
they say with honest feeling, "Vicar's not a bad sort." 
They can tolerate a little human weakness ; but they have 
not the same kindly feeling towards a vicar who is always 
slipping off to town, leaving the parish unvisited and his 
bills unpaid, while, as they express it, he does himself 
well. 

Debt, or the habit which leads to debt, is more difficult 
to deal with than even drink. A man can so easily deceive 
himself about his debts : he can mislead others, and he can 



io8 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



readily ignore or adroitly postpone the day of reckoning. 
The habit grows, and it slowly yet surely demoralizes the 
whole character. Hard facts are put out of sight ; sanguine 
estimates of expenditure are formed ; lies are accepted as 
truths. Perhaps means of raising money are resorted to 
which in days of honour and honesty would have been 
disdained : begging letters are found to bring in a per- 
centage of profit. I remember once receiving a letter from 
a good and kindly lady, calling my attention to the sad 
straits into which a vicar in my diocese had fallen. The 
letter hinted in a gentle fashion that it was really discredit- 
able to the diocese and its bishop that any clergyman should 
be exposed to such hardship and privation. Dear, kind 
soul ! she accepted the word of the vicar ; but we knew 
better : the vicar was making a trade of begging letters. I 
asked some business men to investigate the matter : their 
report was that the vicar was utterly untrustworthy. The 
story which he told to account for his debts was almost 
entirely untrue. He was trading on falsehood and obtaining 
money on false pretences ; but he was skilful enough to 
keep bankruptcy at arm's length while weak and good- 
natured people kept him supplied with funds, which only 
served to encourage him in his career of deception. How, 
it will be asked, how did such a man get a benefice ? He 
was appointed by a lay patron, who never took the trouble 
of asking advice or seeking information, which probably the 
bishop could readily have afforded. 

I have told the stories of some clergymen who, when 
put to the test, failed in the maintenance of their honour. 
Happily they were exceptions : they gave way, when tested, 



CLERICAL PECCADILLOES 109 



to the spirit of the world. I do not like to leave these 
stories about clergymen without adding that my experience 
has also made me acquainted with lines of conduct which 
appear to be acceptable even to laymen who might be called 
men of integrity. As illustration of what I mean, here are 
two stories which set up a contrast between two different 
views of public duty. 

The first was told me by a man who had been a Member 
of Parliament. It was a tale of his own experience. Two 
lines of railroad were proposed, and parliamentary sanction 
was sought. The proposed lines both ran through a certain 
property on their way to London, shall we say ? The owner 
of the property opposed the enterprise, and employed counsel 
to state his objections and, of course, to claim compensation. 
It will be well to give names to the two companies which 
sought for legal approval : one we may be allowed to call 
the London and Fudlington Railway, the other the London 
and Pudlington. When the parliamentary committee met, 
counsel appeared on behalf of (say) Mr. Skimpole, and 
opposed the Bill on the ground that it would seriously 
damage the property. The committee, having heard the 
arguments, assigned in compensation £30,000. The next 
day, when the Bill for the other line of railway was under 
consideration, counsel appeared on behalf of Mr. Skim- 
pole to oppose the Bill. A member of the committee 
asked whether Mr. Skimpole's case had not been disposed 
of on the previous day, when compensation of £30,000 was 
given ? Counsel disclaimed any legal knowledge of such 
a matter : this affair had nothing to do with the London 
and Fudlington line : he was solely concerned that day with 



no FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



the loss which would be occasioned to his client by the 
London and Pudlington line. After consultation, the case 
was settled by assigning once more £30,000 to Mr. Skim- 
pole. And then Mr. Skimpole sold his property for a 
goodly sum of money, having called attention to the great 
advantage which the property possessed as being in the 
immediate neighbourhood of two lines of railway. 

As I heard this story I felt that this was not a story of 
justice or right ; and I ventured to say that it seemed to 
me to be a case of an intolerable wrong done, and an unfair 
advantage taken of the circumstances. The narrator, how- 
ever, did not agree with me : he remarked nonchalantly 
that it was not unfair, as a man had a right to take whatever 
the law gave him. 

My heart sank, for I thought that if our consciences 
were only operative by the maxims of law it would be an 
ill day for the standards of public morality ; and there came 
to my mind another story — and this is my second story — 
in which, as it seemed to me, a nobler and more magnani- 
mous conscientiousness was displayed. It was a story my 
father used to tell. 

In the early days of railway enterprise there lived a 
certain nobleman not far from London. When the railway 
— -probably the London and North- Western Railway — was 
desirous of making its way to London, it proposed to run 
through this nobleman's property. The nobleman was full 
of wrath. He hated railways : why should this horrible 
desecration of his property take place ? He would have 
no dealings with such a business : he opposed the line as 
a man full of pride and prejudice might. In the end his 



CLERICAL PECCADILLOES in 

objections were overruled, and a sum of money was given 
him in compensation. Time went on, and houses began 
to spring up near the railway station, and the land of the 
nobleman rose in value. One day he said to his son : " I 
was wrong about the railway: I thought it would injure the 
property, but it has improved it greatly. This is surprising ; 
and I see that, so far from being, as I feared, a loser, I have 
been a gainer through the railway ; and this being so, I do 
not think that I am entitled to keep the money which was 
given me in compensation for a supposed loss which has not 
occurred." The nobleman acted on his words, and returned 
the compensation money to the railway company. This 
was the story : I cannot vouch for its truth. It would be 
interesting to know whether any record of such a transac- 
tion exists in the historical pages of the London and North- 
western Railway Company, if that was the company 
concerned. 

At any rate, it stands as a story in contrast to the other ; 
and I think that I would rather live and die with a con- 
science like that of the prejudiced old peer than with a 
conscience touched by the smarter methods of Mr. Skim- 
pole. It may, I think, be said with truth, that a man whose 
life is regulated by the letter of the law is yet a long way 
off from that kingdom of heaven which is within ; unless 
life is governed by some principle higher than can be 
expressed in any code, he is still a stranger in the world of 
good. 



SKETCHES OF PARSONS WITH A 

MORAL 



The clergyman of the stage has too often a fixed type ; 
but clergymen are of various types : their variety is as 
marked as that of any other profession. There is the 
parson who dresses like a groom or a jockey, who looks 
so unclerical that people of highly ecclesiastical conven- 
tionality declare that " they don't like him because he is 
so unclerical." Kind reader, who may be tempted to echo 
this verdict — remember the warning, so wise and kindly 
and needful : " Judge not by the appearance, but judge 
righteous judgment." I utter this warning the more 
readily in the present case, because 1 can recall clergymen 
whose appearance would most certainly have been described 
as unclerical ; and yet they were among the best workers 
I have known. Here is a man who dresses like a sports- 
man : his only concession to clerical attire is the white 
tie ; but what a good, practical, kindly parson he is. He 
runs the parish like a guardian : he has noticed the illness 
which is so prevalent : he has traced it to the doubtful 
and indifferent water supply : he has taken prompt action, 
and now a fine, wholesome and abundant water supply has 
been provided. He has noticed that the cluster of houses 
by the railway station is growing in numbers : a new town- 



SKETCHES OF PARSONS WITH A MORAL 113 



ship is being formed ; his energy meets the emergency, 
and now a comely and hospitable church stands conveni- 
ently placed among the increasing population. There is no 
affectation about this parson. He belongs to no party in 
the Church : he offends no one's taste either by unctuous 
phraseology or sacerdotal pretensions : he is a man among 
men. You may wish that he had a more reverent manner, 
or that his spirituality were more apparent ; but he cannot 
affect a role or a pose : he must be just himself. His 
temperament is practical : he is honest and energetic : he 
sees what the place and the people seem to need, and 
he loses no time and spares no pains to supply them. 

This man may not be your favourite type of parson, 
or mine ; but he is a man who is filling his post in a way 
which wins respect, if not affection. He will be remem- 
bered with a regret which will have a note of tenderness 
in it. " He was a right good sort, he was." This is what 
you will hear ; and the speaker will turn his face away, as 
one who fears to let even a passing emotion be noticed. 

Here is another unclerical parson. You might take 
him for a groom, out in attendance on his master on some 
important duty, for his white tie seems to harmonize with 
the groomlike costume. He is clean and neat — almost 
spruce in appearance. His church is a model of cleanliness 
and comeliness : the service is reverent : decent appoint- 
ments are noticeable everywhere : flowers appear, fresh 
and various, as decorations suited to the seasons. As the 
church is well served, so the people are well visited. Classes 
and mothers' meetings are regular. Among his brother 

clergy this parson is regarded as a man who brings to 
1 



ii 4 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

their discussions a plain, incisive, common-sense view of 
things. His words are like a fresh breeze, and the heavy, 
clammy atmosphere of the clerical meeting is refined and 
clarified after he has spoken. The parsons heave a sigh 
of content : he has had the courage to say what was 
glimmering in the background of some minds, and all 
feel that the tension has been relieved. 

Here again is another unclerically garbed parson. He 
dresses as if he wished to be mistaken for a jockey : gaiters 
and leggings, a rough suit with brown checks upon it : 
a grey necktie fastened with a sailor knot — a stick in his 
hand. So like a jockey he is that you almost picture him 
on the roadside sucking the knob of his stick. And yet 
there is in him a gentleness of devotion and a simplicity 
of spirit which win the hearts of those who know him ; 
and his public ministrations are full of verve, intelligence 
and true devoutness. What care he takes in the rendering 
of the service ! What power he throws into his reading 
and preaching ! He reads the lesson, and you are com- 
pelled to listen : he makes the words seize and grasp you : 
you realize the moral force of the stories of the old Book 
which went to form our national character. He preaches, 
and you know that thought and study lie behind the 
sermon, but it is not pedantic : there is no affectation of 
learning about it, there is no assumption of pious man- 
nerism : there is moral earnestness and intellectual energy. 
You are listening to a man with a message. 

And in his parish, what is he ? He is the kindliest of 
men, but he is quite unconventional. He mingles among 
the showmen who come round at the annual fair time ; 
he knows them : he can talk with them — joke with them ; 



SKETCHES OF PARSONS WITH A MORAL 115 



but he gathers them for some special service : he remem- 
bers that they are people with souls, and he brings religion 
to them. How ready he is in emergencies ! Is a sick 
person in need of night watching ? He will give his 
night without grudging. Is a young man troublesome, 
inclined to be dissipated ? He will devote himself to his case, 
visit him, travel with him, and watch over him with constant 
vigilance, while maintaining a happy spirit of comradeship. 

Yes, he is eccentric : people do not like this trait. He 
is a preacher of singular power, he is prompt and vigorous 
in action : a man of wide and tender sympathies : but his 
good qualities are concealed under a cloak of oddity, 
and though his church is full and his sermons are effective, 
a conventional public fail to understand him. But what 
of this ? Beneath the strange garb and unusual modes of 
speech there lurks genuine goodness and real power 
of Christian influence. 

Or, here is another — a different type altogether. His 
fancy runs to an attire which emphasizes his calling. 
He goes about in his cassock, and a black cord with 
tassels encircles his waist. If he visits his people, he visits 
them in his cassock : if they visit him, they find him in 
his cassock ; his parishioners pretend to believe that he 
sleeps in his cassock. People of strong anti-Roman views 
look at him askance : they distrust a man who seems by 
his costume to be flaunting sacerdotal claims unblushingly 
before their eyes. Some people remark on his rubicund 
countenance, and hint that if the joys of domestic life (he is 
a bachelor) are denied to him, he finds some compensation 
in what they are pleased to call the pleasures of the table. 
Yet, as a fact, he is abstemious and an example of self- 



n6 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



denial. He gives liberally to the needy : he stints himself : 
he is courageously outspoken to rough and idle men and 
lads. He is sympathetic — tenderly so — to the weak and the 
fallen ; his personal piety is as genuine as his parochial 
devotion. If he is over careful, as some think, about 
external or ceremonial points, the deep reality of his 
religion gives men confidence that with him mere exter- 
nalism will never choke the unquestioned spirituality of 
his faith. As we learn to know him, we feel inclined 
to repeat again the much-needed caution : " Judge not 
according to appearance, but judge righteous judgment." 

May I place another character upon the stage ? Here 
is a parson, neat but not dandyish in his dress ; after its 
fashion it clearly indicates his profession ; he wears a coat 
which is ecclesiastical in outline ; his white tie advertises 
his calling without any hesitation or concealment. He is a 
little stiff in manner, prim, if not pedantic, in speech. He 
never condescends to slang : 1 cannot imagine his ever 
saying to any friend : "How are you, old chap?" His 
greeting would be strictly polite — perhaps chilling in effect. 
You never know if he cares for you. You have an inward 
though unaccepted belief that he has suspicions of your 
orthodoxy. You know that he would be inclined to find 
lurking heresy in your words, and you are conscious that a 
general spirit of disapproval of modern habits pervades his 
outlook upon life. Frankly, he does not attract people to 
him. Mere goodness of nature would not conciliate him ; 
he distrusts such a thing, because of the established badness 
of human nature. It is easy to see how such a man might 
repel you, and how readily we might class him among those 
pharisaic people who live in a little select circle of their 



SKETCHES OF PARSONS WITH A MORAL 117 



own, and condemn uncharitably the general world around 
them. And yet how wrong we should be. Learn to know 
this man better, and you find that his apparent coldness is 
the result of constitutional shyness ; that the reserve which 
marks his manner is not a condemnation of others, but a 
distrust of himself. His ideal of Christian life is very high. 
He earnestly desires that his mouth shall not offend, and he, 
therefore, often — too often — keeps silence from good words, 
and even kind words ; for he distrusts impulse, and believes 
in a chastened habit of life. You enter the house, and, 
although there is an atmosphere of restraint in the family, 
you soon discover how intense and practical is their 
religious life. One child — a daughter — is a missionary 
abroad ; another — a son — is doing good work in a slum 
parish, and has broken down after an illness contracted in 
visiting incessantly among cases of an infectious epidemic. 
The conversation in the home is serene, restrained, culti- 
vated ; it does not include literature in its widest sense ; 
but the family know Cowper's poems as well as Milton ; 
they are well acquainted with the Pilgrim's Progress and 
Wilberforce's Practical View ; they are familiar with hymns, 
especially with those which were circulated and sung before 
the Oxford movement. It is a home of genuine piety 
which we have entered, and you leave it with the conviction 
that charity bids us to know all before we venture to form 
a hasty and ignorant judgment on any man. 

Yet another sketch I must give. Here again is a man, 
greatly respected ; he is looked upon as a latitudinarian 
iconoclast ; he seems to have no reverence for established 
usage or historic beliefs. His very air in church seems to 
be a protest against any attempt to secure a reverent or 



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decorous order in worship. His surplice is flung untidily- 
round his shoulders ; a precarious button holds it together 
with doubtful success ; beneath it, and in the long, gaping 
front of the surplice, you see his everyday costume ; no 
cassock gives symmetry or conciliating reserve to the 
outline of his figure. In his movements he is quick, and 
apparently impatient ; he seems to disapprove of any 
lingering devotion when once the stated service is over. 
He offends people by a certain slatternly manner of con- 
ducting worship. He offends or frightens them when he 
preaches ; he is eager, voluble, and deeply interested in his 
sermon, but he is heedless of the intellectual capacity of his 
congregation. He has studied much and long ; he has 
his own phraseology ; but it is not a language understanded 
of the people. He flings out his thoughts with burning 
zeal, but they are either not understood or hopelessly 
misunderstood by his hearers ; in his absorbing eagerness 
to say what he feels deeply, he is often incoherent ; his 
utterances are taken away piecemeal to their homes by his 
auditors ; som£ phrase, in their judgment, reeks of heresy ; 
it seems to deny or invalidate ancient beliefs. They feel as 
though they were robbed of their Christian inheritance. 

And yet, here again, shall we visit his home ? What a 
revelation, and what an explanation of all that has been so 
puzzling meets us here. Here we find a man of simple 
piety and singular guilelessness of spirit, ordering his 
household with apostolic care and evangelical zeal. To be 
present at family prayers is to realize that here is a life 
guided by the love of Christ, devoted to His service, full 
of faith in the kingdom which our Lord opened to all 
believers. And then we realize that his preaching is 



SKETCHES OF PARSONS WITH A MORAL 119 



intended to make plain a gospel which he thinks has been 
obscured by unfortunate after-glosses ; that he is trying to 
speak the truth that he loves ; that the words he uses are 
quite innocent of heresy when judged by his own range of 
language, and that a certain unusualness of phrase has given 
rise to misunderstandings ; that what he sought to say was 
what the people longed to hear ; but that differences of speech 
were creating troublesome mistakes. I can imagine that the 
devout orthodox clergyman who by reason of popular report 
thought him a heretic, might well feel after a night spent under 
his roof that this man was a good Christian man, earnest in 
soul, but entirely misunderstood. And so again, the guest 
would learn, as we might, to judge nothing before the 
time. 

If I add another sketch, I do so because there is a touch 
of humour about the parson whom I now describe. He 
dresses in ordinary clerical attire ; you know that he is not 
marked by over-scrupulous ecclesiasticism. He goes about 
his parish, and as he talks you feel that he is a bit of a 
humorist. He observes his people ; he notes their little 
tricks of manner, and their characteristic intonation of 
voice ; he can not only talk to them, but he can tell them 
how they talk. He is slovenly in church, as though he 
feared that reverence might end in superstition. He reads 
the service with emphasis — and the emphasis is all his own ; 
it indicates — whether you like it or not — it indicates thought. 
He preaches, and no one can doubt his zeal, but his 
language belongs to the last generation, and to the people 
of to-day it sounds like the repetition of empty phrases ; 
words and collocations of words, which once meant living 
truth and stirred men's souls, have passed out of currency ; 



120 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

the spiritual force has evaporated. The people listen with 
laudable patience, but they nod to one another when they 
meet outside, and agree that the sermon was dull and 
difficult to follow. Yet at times the latent humour of the 
preacher bubbles up in the sermon. Once, for example, 
when preaching on the text, " If thou knewest the gift of 
God," he ventured on some interesting examples of missed 
opportunities. " A man," he said, " owned land in Australia ; 
he grew tired of it ; he sold it. He had hardly returned to 
England when, behold ! gold was discovered on the property 
he had sold. If he had known ! I myself," he continued, 
" once held a picture in my hands ; I was afraid to buy it : 
I didn't. Shortly after that very picture was sold at 
Christie's for a very large sum of money. If I had 
known ! " We can imagine the spirit of mirth which such 
examples provoked ; but the decorous countenances in the 
church showed no sign of the amusement which was gener- 
ally felt. The preacher did not mean to be humorous ; 
but I think his people knew that the humour of his 
nature was ready to break out, almost without realizing it 
himself. He had a gift of smart rejoinder, which was 
welcome to those who heard it, if not pleasing to the one 
who had provoked. Thus it happened that a man who had 
made a fortune in the colonies returned home and bought 
himself some property in the neighbourhood. This roused 
the indignation of a pedantic theorist, who denounced the 
purchase of the property as an outrage on the rights of 
others — an injury, a wrong, a robbery ! 

" And why should not the man buy a little land and 
settle down for the closing years of his life ? Has he not a 
right to spend his money as he pleases ? " 



SKETCHES OF PARSONS WITH A MORAL 121 



" No, he has no right to land. The land belongs to God, 
and no one man has a right to it, even by purchase." 

The vicar looked at this advocate of extreme socialistic 
views, and then said, with seeming irrelevance, "That's a 
very nice coat you are wearing." 

" Yes," said the other, " and good stuff, too ; all good, 
pure wool." 

" You have no right to wear it or own it," said the vicar. 

" Why not ? " said the man ; " it's bought and paid for." 

" Oh, no," said the vicar, " however that may be, you 
have no right to own it ; it is stuff which belongs to God, 
just as the land does ; the sheep belong to God ; the 
psalmist tells us God's claim : c Every beast is mine, and so 
are the cattle upon a thousand hills : the whole world is 
mine and the fulness thereof.' " 

Such was the vicar, with his humour and readiness — 
a man mercurial, impulsive, imitative ; bearing his life as 
a disappointment, easily depressed, annoyed and almost 
angered to find, after some thirty years of work, that his 
people knew so little of their Bibles. Had he not been 
expounding it in their ears for a generation? Was it not 
heartbreaking to find that they were ignorant of some of the 
most obvious matters of Bible story ? Rumour said that 
disappointment killed him ; but I think that his people, 
even now, miss the tall, black-coated figure, the ruddy face, 
the white hair, the pause on the road, the jerky speech, the 
quaint remark, the good-humoured raillery. He was the 
parson, and whatever else, he was, as they said, "a 
character," and a character is not easily forgotten. 

But this, let me add, is no reason why a man should 
attempt to be a character ; eccentricity which is assumed is 



122 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



always ineffective. " That is lovely/' says Dante, " which 
is most distinctive" ; but shams are not distinctive. 

BISHOPS AND BISHOPS 

The days when I first made acquaintance with the 
Northern Convocation stand out in my memory with a 
special interest or even charm. The Upper House then 
consisted of the Primate, Archbishop Thomson, the Bishop 
of Durham was Dr. Lightfoot, the Bishop of Carlisle was 
Dr. Harvey Goodwin, the Bishop of Manchester was Dr. 
Fraser, the Bishop of Newcastle was Dr. Ernest Wilberforce, 
the Bishop of Liverpool was Dr. Ryle, and the Bishop of 
Sodor and Man was Dr. Rowley Hill. We were all enter- 
tained with large-hearted and unstinting hospitality by 
the Archbishop at Bishopthorpe. The days were given to 
business, but in the evenings at Bishopthorpe there was a 
relaxation from severer topics. An atmosphere of social 
kindliness invited a happy freedom : it became natural to 
be gay, and it was admissible to allow mirth to have some 
scope in the intercourse. The result was that quips and 
smart sayings, humorous tales and witticisms were welcome. 
There was no affected solemnity, and no unwritten code of 
manners which prohibited a smile. Decorous dulness was 
not considered the essential attendant of piety. The 
religious spirit might flow through natural channels, and 
laughter was a gift of God. 

Dr. Rowley Hill was the wit of the party. He had the 
quick, happy irrelevancy of fancy which could detach itself 
from the immediate topic, and fasten upon some humorous 
aspect. When he urged some friend to visit the Isle of 



SKETCHES OF PARSONS WITH A MORAL 123 



Man, the friend objected that the sea and its consequent 
malaise would be too much for him, so he could never 
go by boat. " Oh, well then, why don't you come by 
Barrow ? " said the Bishop. 

Among tales told by Bishop Rowley Hill, I recall one 
which he told with great enjoyment. The omnibus was at 
the hotel door about to convey passengers to the station ; 
the passengers were taking their seats, and "Boots " was 
hovering about expectantly, the last chance of a " tip " had 
come. Among the passengers was a Frenchman, who had 
just taken his place near the door of the omnibus. With 
ingratiating and deprecating air, Boots drew near and, 
tendering his cap, said in an insinuating and suggestive 
way, "Remember Boots, ^ir." 

" Vat you say ? " said the Frenchman. 

" Remember Boots, sir," was the reply. 

The Frenchman looked blank and puzzled, and again 
asked, " Vat vas dat you say — Remember Boots ? " 

"Yes, remember Boots," said the eager Boots. 

Whereupon the Frenchman deliberately turned the 
handle of the door, stepped in dignified fashion into the 
road, and flinging his arms round Boots' neck, exclaimed with 
fervour, " Oh, Boots, I vill remember you as long as I lif ! " 

One scene I recall. We were all in the hospitable 
omnibus, which was taking us from Bishopthorpe into 
York, for the morning meeting of Convocation. As we 
journeyed, I read to the Archbishop and my brother 
Bishops, Mark Twain's tale, entitled " Parting with the 
Family Pet." The effect of the story was just delightful. 
I suppose we were all just in the mood to enjoy some 
innocent fooling. Bishop Fraser was happily amused. 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



Bishop Harvey Goodwin appreciated the humour of the 
tale. The Archbishop, unwilling to give way too much, 
was yet moved to irresistible mirth. Bishop Lightfoot 
fairly abandoned himself to the spirit and movement of the 
narrative, and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. 
They were happy, brotherly days which we spent at Bishop- 
thorpe, and the genial tone of them was refreshing. It 
seemed to unlock the gates of dignified reserve ; we could 
be ourselves, and let natural emotion have free play. I can 
now picture Bishop Harvey Goodwin passing on to us an 
anecdote which he had read in some newspaper. It told of 
a conversation between two sailors. " Mate," said one of 
them, u what is a hanthem that I hear folks speaking 
about ? " " A hanthem, Bill ? " said the other. " Well, 
it's like this : if I was to say to you, c Bill, hand me that 
marling spike/ well, that wouldn't be a hanthem ; but if 
I was to say to you, ' Bill — Bill — hand me, hand me, Bill, 
hand, hand me that — hand me, Bill, that marling, marling, 
Bill — that marling spike, hand me, Bill, that spike — marling 
Bill spike — hand me that marling, marling spike,' why, that 
would be a hanthem." The anecdote is trite enough : the 
keen enjoyment with which it was told is the refreshing 
element in the incident ; it illustrates the happy freedom of 
our intercourse, and the absence of that professional reserve 
which so often dehumanizes our clerical gatherings. 

It is unkind to tell tales out of school ; but as all the 
actors in the following little scenes have passed away, it 
may not be out of place to chronicle these harmless tales. 
It is well known that bishops meet for mutual counsel, 
and talk over their difficulties. Sometimes these difficulties 
present a somewhat comic aspect to untrained minds, 



SKETCHES OF PARSONS WITH A MORAL 125 

One such difficulty was brought before his brethren by 
a bishop who had great skill in argument, and delighted in 
presenting a question under a wide variety of view. The 
difficulty was this — 

A clergyman had telegraphed to him for instructions. 
A fire had taken place, and the clergyman was asked to take 
the funeral of one of the victims ; the body had been 
almost reduced to ashes : the clergyman desired to know 
whether he was to use the ordinary burial service or 
whether he ought not to alter the wording of the service ; 
for how could he truly say " we commit his body to the 
ground," when there is literally no body left ? The bishop 
had replied that the service must not be altered. Having 
told the story he proceeded to argue the question after his own 
ingenious and logical fashion. After all, what does the word 
body mean ? Must you take it to mean the body as we 
generally know it ? Yet, if a man had lost arms and legs, 
would you hesitate to use the word body when it was little 
more than his trunk which you committed to the ground ? 
The idea might be carried further — What is a body ? Is it the 
material bodily framework ? Among the various accidents 
of life, how often it is but a small residue of the body 
proper which is left at the last. Disease may have wasted 
away the bulk of the bodily tissue : accident may have 
reduced the frame to a mere fraction of its former self ; 
fire, as in the case in question, may have devoured all but 
an insignificant residuum of what was once its bulk. 

This bore on cremation. If cremation became a widely 
observed practice were we to use the old service and speak 
of committing the body to the ground. After all, it might 
be quite convenient to do so. All we meant was that such 



126 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



remains of what once was the body were now to be given 
the sepulture of earth. 

After the bishop had delivered his thoughts on the 
subject, a debate, or rather a general conversation, ensued. 
One bishop, steeped in patristic lore, gave utterance to his 
view that cremation was a pagan practice, and that the 
distinction between heathens and Christians was well set 
forth by one of the Fathers, who had pointedly said, " They 
indeed (the heathen) burn, but we (the Christians) bury." 

Stirred by this thought, another bishop rose and delivered 
it as his opinion that cremation dangerously threatened the 
doctrine of the resurrection, and destroyed the very body 
of which St. Paul had spoken in his Corinthian epistles. 

This was too much for the bishop who had introduced 
the subject. He rose, and with some vigour and vehemence 
repudiated the line of reasoning ( ?) which his brother pre- 
late had used. The words of St. Paul were quite plain : 
" That which thou sowest, thou sowest not that body which 
shall be, but bare grain . . . : but God giveth it a body as 
it pleaseth Him." 

It was a curious scene : it set one wondering at the 
very small amount of thought there was in the world, and 
how readily a man might reach a position of authority and 
responsibility without having greatly exercised his brain. 

Another scene I may give — this was an informal meet- 
ing of bishops. Round a table are gathered, perhaps, some 
dozen bishops. The question to be considered was the 
* fruitful one of Bible difficulties. One devout bishop was 
sorely troubled on the subject of the noth Psalm, which 
critics declared was not written by David, but which, as it 
seemed to him, our Lord had treated as David's. Christ 



SKETCHES OF PARSONS WITH A MORAL 127 



had said : " David in the Psalms saith, The Lord said 
unto my Lord, Sit thou on my right hand." Must we 
not believe that our Lord knew better than the critics ? or 
how were we to explain our Lord's ignorance of the true 
authorship of the Psalm ? 

I wonder whether the mind of the questioner was 
satisfied with the general reply that Christ was not com- 
mitting Himself to the question of authorship at all : He 
was merely citing as belonging to those works which went 
under the common title of David, just as we might cite 
from " Blackstone," although the particular case we referred 
to might be found in an edition of Blackstone made later 
than the date of the famous law authority. 

The question of Bible difficulties is a large one, and 
soon the old difficulties of Jonah and the Whale and 
Balaam's Ass were brought forward. When some of the 
ordinary answers to the Jonah difficulty had been men- 
tioned, a bishop, pious and plaintive, expressed his devout 
belief : " Well, I feel sympathy with the dear old godly 
woman who said, * If the Bible had told me that Jonah 
swallowed the whale, I would have believed it.' " 

Here I must let the curtain drop : the records are of 
old and obsolete days. We are wiser now : we have 
learned much since then. We can afford to smile over 
difficulties which troubled many pious souls. 

ARCHBISHOP TEMPLE 

Stories of the early years of men's lives have special 
interest when they give some hint of character which after- 
life brings out with prominence. The remembrance of 



128 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



this kind of prophetic feature of boyhood's actions, 1 think, 
was stirred in our minds when, in Bradford, during the 
Church Congress of 1898, we had Archbishop Temple 
with us as our guest. We had taken up our quarters for 
the week at the Midland Hotel, and there the archbishop 
joined us. Is residence under the same roof a revealer of 
men ? If so, the archbishop revealed the best and kindest 
of natures. It was a joy to have him : his happy freedom, 
his ready mirthfulness, his strength of mind, his industrious 
energy, were conspicuous. He stayed with us till the last 
possible moment, travelling back to London by the night 
train rather than fail to help us at our evening meeting. 
At the congress he was a real strength to us : at the hotel 
he was frank and kindly, full of anecdote and friendly talk. 

How vividly he told us of his boyish experience when 
his mother commissioned him to do some errand in the 
neighbouring town, and he found that what he had been 
asked to bring was heavier and more cumbrous than he 
could carry with anything like ease or comfort ; but with 
him there was no question of shirking difficulty. If a 
thing had to be done, it must at least be attempted. 
Accordingly, now lifting, now dragging, now resting, now 
renewing his efforts, he travelled with his burden the 
homeward journey, and so fulfilled successfully the difficult 
and fatiguing task. The incident showed character, and 
character is the chief asset in life, and the only one which 
in the long run counts. 

On another occasion we spoke about hymns. I told 
how Mr. Farmer, to whom Harrow owes so many of her 
school songs, had acted when he wanted to compile a hymn 
book for Balliol College chapel. He asked a certain 



SKETCHES OF PARSONS WITH A MORA. 



number of his acquaintances to send him a list of twenty- 
hymns, the choice to be governed by this condition : the 
hymns chosen were to be such that young men would be 
willing to sing them, and would not be ashamed, twenty 
years hence, to have sung them. In this way he got 
several lists containing twenty hymns each, and out of 
these he was able to compile a hymn book of some 
hundred hymns, all of them hymns of strong, robust and 
suitable character. I asked Mr. Farmer what hymns found 
a place in the majority of lists. He told me, if I recollect 
rightly, that the hymn, " O God, our help in ages past," 
was included in every list. I told this to the archbishop 
and the rest of our party ; and I added that I thought this 
hymn the finest or premier hymn in the English language. 
The archbishop — somewhat, I think, to my surprise — did 
not agree, and expressed his preference for hymns of a 
more directly personal kind, and gave as an example, 
" The King of Love my shepherd is." I am not suggest- 
ing that he put this forward as his favourite hymn ; but he 
certainly showed his leaning towards the class of hymns 
which give expression to personal faith. 

We were thinking of different things. My thoughts 
were of hymns which suit multitudes, or which embody 
national or collective faith ; and such hymns I would class 
among those which might be called fine — an adjective which 
I would not apply to those tender, sweet, spiritual hymns 
of individual trust, like " The King of Love," or " Jesu, 
lover of my soul," or " My God, the spring of all my 
joys." These, from the clinging intimacy of their language, 
belong to that realm of spiritual peace and satisfaction in 
which one no longer considers whether the sacred ode is 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



fine or not : they are the utterance of emotions or experi- 
ences which lie beyond the range of the critical faculty, 
which judges whether a thing is "fine" or not. The in- 
wardly recognized truth possesses the soul to the exclusion 
for the moment of the artistic judgment. 

In short, at the moment my mind was set upon what 
my mind appreciated while the archbishop was speaking 
of what he found soul-satisfying. When we realized this, 
we were found to be nearer in accord than at first sight 
appeared. What is fine when sung by thousands in worship 
is not always spiritually the most helpful when one is alone 
in one's room, trying to find nourishment and comfort for 
the failing heart or the burdened soul. 

v I have been always glad to recall this conversation about 
hymns. It helped to clear my own judgment, and it 
seemed to show me how a man, great, strong, courageous 
and true, might be possessed at the same time of a genuine 
and touching humility of spirit. 

Is it worth while recalling what, I think, must have been 
my last conversation with Archbishop Temple ? It was at 
the close of a bishops' meeting. He said he felt tired, and 
could not do his work. Naturally I suggested rest, which 
would in time make work easy. "No," he said, "I am 
tired, and as to my work, I don't want to do it." I answered : 
" If your worst enemy said that I should not believe him." 
It, however, was plain enough that the pressure of work 
had worn out the energy so much that even the thought 
of work seemed a burden too heavy to bear. Remember- 
ing this, I can feel the heroism with which he worked on, 
and died gloriously in harness. 



HOLBECK JUNCTION 



I read in an advertisement the other day that fifteen- 
sixteenths of convictions for crime were for fraud. I 
suppose one may believe that crimes of violence decrease 
as society becomes civilized, but are we more honest ? 

Be not alarmed, my friend ; I am not going to undertake 
a dissertation on criminal statistics. The question I asked, 
and the words which led to it, were only like a preface, 
which may be happily irrelevant to what follows. While 
journeying to and fro upon episcopal work, I have often had 
to spend time at a railway station, and in doing so I have found 
kind friends among the officials. One station at one period 
saw much of me. Just outside Leeds there is a station 
called Holbeck : I used to know it well. It was then 
the station where tickets were collected from passengers 
travelling to Leeds from Ripon ; it was the junction also 
where passengers changed for the Great Northern system, 
and sometimes for the Midland system. How many hours 
I have spent in the upper level or lower level stations at 
Holbeck ! How many good friends I found among the 
foremen and porters there ! At home we always talked 
about the Holbeck men as if they were a class by them- 
selves, distinguished for virtues not met elsewhere. To 
us they were distinguished by kindness, helpfulness, 
thoughtfulness ; they eased our journeys, they lessened 

131 



132 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



our fatigues, they carried our burdens for us with a smile. 
Oh, we were great friends ! Shall I ever forget the good- 
natured giant, Davey by name, with his huge frame, his 
paternal eye, his strong and far-reaching voice ? Why, 
as I write, I can hear it as it rises over the hustling sound 
of nervous feet, the hum of the luggage-laden trucks, and 
the roar of the incoming train, as the engine bursts through 
the arch of the upper line. " Train for Harrogate, Ripon, 
Darlington, and the North," and then, almost before the 
echoes died away, Davey was running along the slackening 
train, was searching the carriages with kindly look, was 
opening the door of the least crowded compartment and 
helping us in for the last stage of the journey to Ripon 
after a long and tiring day. Dear Davey, you almost 
thought we had proved faithless when the new line was 
opened and we reached Leeds without passing through 
Holbeck, or travelled to and from London by a route which 
avoided Leeds and Holbeck. " You're quite a stranger," 
he would say, looking down upon me with a wistful expres- 
sion of face. I declare that I felt almost ashamed that we 
were taking advantage of improved railway communication. 
The change robbed Holbeck of much of its traffic and a 
good deal of its importance ; the staff was reduced, the 
two or three hundred trains a day no longer rushed and 
roared through the stations. What it may be now, I 
cannot say ; but I like to think of it as it was in the days 
of its glory, when I paced up and down the long platform 
and talked to the men, and found so much of sweet and 
true humanity in them all ; when they met me with 
smiling faces and kindly greetings, when we always made 



HOLBECK JUNCTION 



133 



up parcels of Christmas cards for the Holbeck men, when 
the stationmaster's room was always at my disposal to 
rest or to chat in. 

It was during one of the inevitable intervals spent in 
the stationmaster's room that I heard stories of an 
inspector's experience on the line. Here I come back 
to the question : [are we more honest ? The inspector's 
business was not that of ticket collector but of ticket 
inspector. His little realm of inspection comprised a 
portion of the London and Suburban section of the line 
it extended a few miles north of London to the city. 

Are people more honest ? He told me that he 
collected in one fortnight £200 for unpaid fares within 
his own district. Not all, perhaps, were fraudulent people ; 
some, no doubt, had failed to book through hurry ; but they 
were not all forgetful or hurried people who contributed 
to the ,£200 which was gathered in that fortnight. 

Many were the devices resorted to by the ingenuity 
of those who shirked honest methods. To nod in a 
familiar way when asked for ticket and to murmur 
" Season " was one method : this was generally resorted 
to by those who were usually season ticket holders, but 
who sought to travel economically when the season ticket 
had expired, and so to enjoy cheap travelling before 
embarking on another period of expensive honesty. 
Another method adopted was to split the season ticket, 
as you make split toast ; then, by placing each half in a 
leather frame, with the rough surface below, you became 
possessed of the appearance of two season tickets, and 
you could take your wife to town for the theatre or 



134 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



concert, posing both as season ticket holders. A man 
who was nimble of foot and cool of brain could reduce 
the cost of a journey by bolting out of the train and 
hastily booking for the last part of the journey while the 
train was waiting at the station ; he probably booked for 
the first part of the journey, then travelled without cost 
for the interval and put himself right, as he would say, 
by taking a ticket for the final stage. The inspector's 
eyes, however, were sharp, and the inspector proved to be 
ubiquitous, and the adroit culprit was unexpectedly con- 
fronted by the inspector at the city terminus, and was 
shown to have in his possession a ticket for the first stage 
of the journey, and to have given up at the barrier only a 
ticket for the last stage ; and as the inspector had watched 
the whole manoeuvre, the smart young man was haled 
forthwith before the magistrate. 

But here is the most curious tale I heard among the 
tales told me that day. A certain man was a clever 
draughtsman, and he bought every Saturday a week-end 
ticket from King's Cross to Hornsey. Before using it, 
he altered Hornsey to Holbeck. This required some 
skill ; but it was done, and done so well that the fraud 
was not discovered for some time. Every week this man 
travelled to Leeds, alighting, as his ticket intimated, at 
Holbeck. No one noticed that the ticket had been 
tampered with, and even when the fraud was discovered 
it was not discovered through any clumsiness of the 
craftsman culprit. It was discovered when a new route 
was opened for a short portion of the line, and tickets 
were issued with the additional words : " By West 



HOLBECK JUNCTION 



135 



Yorkshire line," or some such indication of the new route. 
The new words were wanting on the adventurer's ticket, 
the lack of them led to inquiry, and the inquiry to 
discovery, the discovery to conviction and imprisonment. 

But now comes the most strange and singular part 
of the story. What was the object of this weekly journey 
to Holbeck and back ? It was to preach at some evange- 
listic or open-air service in Leeds. Human nature has 
its surprises. I confess to a wish that I might have heard 
what this strange man had to preach ; what odd con- 
tradictions must have existed in such a man ! Did he 
find in his missionary task a justification of his fraud ? 
Did he lie down to rest on Sunday nights with a quiet 
and self-approving conscience ? Or did he make his 
preachings profitable, and was he all the while laughing in 
his sleeve at the deceived congregation and the defrauded 
railway company ? 

Was he the deliberate deceiver who, like Horace's 
false worshipper, besought the gods to help him to appear 
good while he was not so ? 

"Labra movet metuens audiri : Pulchra Laverna 
Da mihi fallere, da justo sancto que videri ; 
Noctem peccatis, et fraudibus objice nubem." 

Hor. Ep., i. 16 (543). 
"Divine Laverna, grant me safe disguise, 
Let me seem just and upright in men's eyes, 
Shed night upon my crimes, and glamour o'er my lies." 

Covington's Translation. 

But I must leave these Holbeck memories, yet not 
without a tribute to the kindly, hardworking men who 
smoothed my way and often revived my heart. You will 



136 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

not find, them in Holbeck now. All are scattered ; I 
saw recently one familiar face which brought back old 
memories, but it was not at Holbeck. Not one, I think, 
of the old Holbeck men are to be found there. Davey 
is dead. The strong, big, kindly man — the father of the 
platform — has passed on to the other world. The light 
of that other world shone in his life and brightened his 
closing days. Holbeck could never seem the same without 
him. 



MR. MILLWRIGHT 



I have met men who have interested me and even 
impressed me by some trait or traits of character which 
are unusual. Two of these recur to my memory : both are 
dead now, but there are people alive who perhaps would not 
wish them to be spoken of by name. I shall, therefore, 
speak of them by some fancy names. 

Mr. Millwright was not a typical Yorkshireman : he 
was not, that is to say, of the John Browdie sort. He was 
lithe, active and almost nervously built. He had a wide 
brow and a face weather-touched and broken into a few 
broad folds. It could not be called wrinkled, and it 
certainly was not fleshy or flabby ; but there were distinct 
marks of effort and energetic attention in its lines. His 
life had been successful. He had been brought up in a 
fairly cultivated home, and he had been designed for one of 
the professions : he was looked upon as the future clergy- 
man of the family — a foolishly attempted anticipation which 
led to its own defeat. A lad does not like to have his future 
fixed and paraded perpetually before his eyes. The well- 
meant, but silly talk of the home provoked an obstinate 
distaste in the lad's mind, and he turned his thoughts to 
business, and in business he succeeded. 

His success, however, was not due to what we call 

i37 



1 38 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



business capacity, which often means adroitness and that 
smartness which is second cousin to fraud. His success 
was due to the patience which is said to be synonymous 
with genius : he was a born inventor, and he had the gift 
of that tenacity of purpose and long-continued attention 
which so often ensures success. If Sir Isaac Newton was 
right in saying that he owed his success to his habit of 
" always intending his mind," this man of whom I write might 
fairly make the same claim. Witness him when all the 
workmen and clerks have gone home ! See how he spends 
the night ! He is lying at full length below one of the fabric- 
making machines : he is watching the mechanism : he will 
start the machine and note the interplay of wheels and teeth, 
of leather bands, or rough canvas foundation, and he will 
devise some method of simplifying the process, and so 
effecting economy in production. He lights upon one 
simple method of economy. When the foundation material 
passes through the machine, the machine only works upon one 
length of fabric. If the downward thrust of the machine 
produces the required result, the upward thrust might be 
utilized to produce a similar result. Let us run another 
course of foundation material parallel to the lower one, and 
let the machinery work upon two lengths at the same time. 
It will then only need to cut the threads between the two 
parallel breadths to produce two lengths of fabric instead of 
one. With a very simple device the productive power of 
the machinery is doubled. 

This is only one of the many simple contrivances which 
resulted from nights of patient observation and reflection. 
It was to this power of attention and energy of action that 



MR. MILLWRIGHT 



139 



he owed his success. He became a local magnate — an 
honoured benefactor of the town where his business was 
done. 

When I was in the town at one time I heard that he was 
ill, in the hotel where I was lunching. I sent up my card 
and asked if he would like to see me. He invited me to 
come. I found him in a small bedroom all alone. 

I said, " Mr. Millwright, you ought not to be here 
alone when ill." 

"Bishop," he replied, "I would not let any of my 
family come. Two doctors from London came down to see 
me : they sat in that chair in which you now sit. They ex- 
amined me, and when they rose up I read death in their 
faces. I said to myself : If I am to get well I had better be 
alone ; if I am to die, I had better be alone to make my 
peace with God. So I would not have any member of my 
family with me." 

The strength of character which such a resolution dis- 
closed impressed me much, and my interest in Mr. Mill- 
wright increased. He recovered and lived to a good old 
age : he kept his mental vigour to the last. Here, for 
instance is a letter he wrote me when he was more than 
ninety-one years of age — 

" Knowing how much you are occupied, I will be 
as brief as possible. 

" I do not wish to trouble you by asking you to 
give me your opinion, but simply to .indicate any work 
or book that explains how, if the c Garden of Eden ' 
and the i Fall ' is simply a myth, and if there was no 
' Fall,' how could there be any c Atonement ' ? 



i 4 o FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



" Then what becomes of the Christian religion ? 
You will see that these questions are vital, and require 
to be thoughtfully considered." 

Whatever crudeness of conception may be thought to 
underlie these questions, there is no doubt that this letter 
shows alacrity and sincerity of mind on the part of one who 
had passed fourscore and ten. 

I sent him a book, then much lauded, thinking that, 
though I found it feeble, it might suggest to him some 
helpful line of thought. Within a few days it was returned 
to me : he found it unsatisfactory and of no mental service. 
My experiment had answered, for now I was able to judge 
better what kind of work would suit him. He was quite 
able to take stronger meat. Accordingly I recommended 
to him a book which, for honesty of mind and frank 
recognition of difficulties, was in my view the best bit of 
Christian apologetic I knew at the time. It was a book 
which certain obscurantist minds had condemned as 
dangerous, because they failed to read it with an intelligent 
wish to understand it. This time my effort was successful 
and Mr. Millwright wrote — * 

"Let me thank you for pointing out a most 
admirable book, which was just what I wanted, so full 
of deep thought. I agree with the author that there 
can be no religion without faith, but on the other hand, 
faith without reason, which I may say hitherto has been 
almost universally the case with all the religious world, 
is simply a ship without a rudder and may lead to 
anything. 

" Look at what I was taught by the Church : that, 



MR. MILLWRIGHT 



with few exceptions, the whole world was to suffer 
everlasting fire, because of Adam and the apple ! and 
there never was such a person ! ! ! There you see 
the results of faith without reason, and that, too, in 
the most enlightened country in the world, and the 
greatest freedom of thought." 

I am not citing these for the sake of the particular theo- 
logical matters referred to, but for the sake of illustrating 
the alertness of mind and intellectual interest which marked 
this remarkable nonagenarian who, after a life of hard work, 
prolific inventiveness, and unusual business success, could 
occupy himself in the study of questions which required 
careful and sustained thought. The vigour and activity of 
his mind continued with him to the last. His leaf did not 
wither, and life did not lose its interest ; he knew the secret 
of old age — the inquiring spirit and well-grounded faith. 



GOOD FRIDAY 



There is a happiness in recalling work in which the 
glad co-operation of willing workers has been a source of 
constant joy. As I look back there was no work in which 
such a loyal co-operation was seen as I met with when we 
started a special Good Friday service in Leeds. I do not 
think that any one could have had a more noble and self- 
denying body of helpers than those who formed what we 
called the Good Friday Committee. 1 am not writing a 
history of that service : I am writing only about the men 
who for more than twenty years worked to make the 
service a success. 

Good Friday was treated in many places as a holiday, 

and nothing more. It is true that quiet and devout people 

went to church that day full of grateful and tender thoughts 

of the great love of Christ, but there were thousands who 

took advantage of the slackening of work and treated it as 

a day for amusement. I have said a slackening of work, for 

that day was not everywhere or by every employer of labour 

regarded as even a holiday. Some factories even kept at 

work all day long : the day had no meaning and no sanctity 

for some business men. It seemed to me a pity that no 

special effort was made to bring the sacred memories of the 

day before the great numbers who ignored its meaning 

either by toil or by amusement. 

142 



GOOD FRIDAY 



143 



A curious story, told me by Dean Burgon, tended to 
quicken my wish. The story is so remarkable that I tell 
it here : it may put others on their guard not to assume 
too readily that what is commonly spoken of is always 
understood. Dean Burgon — or Mr. Burgon I ought to 
say, for it was before he was made Dean of Chichester — 
was seated one Saturday in his study preparing his sermon 
for Sunday. He was told that the mistress of his school 
wished to see him. When she came in, she said, " Oh, Mr. 
Burgon, I have just learned a most dreadful thing ! " Mr. 
Burgon wondered what mishap had occurred, and asked 
what was the matter. " Oh," she said, " I hear that when 
our Lord was put to death they drove nails into His feet 
and into His hands, and then hung Him up on the Cross !" 
Mr. Burgon was puzzled by this utterance, and replied, 
" Yes, yes, of course " ; whereupon the schoolmistress 
said, " But, oh ! wasn't it very cruel ? " " Yes, yes, of 
course it was/' said Mr. Burgon ; u but I don't understand 
why you come to speak of it just now : we all know that 
our Lord was crucified. What has made you think of it 
now ? " " Oh," she said, " I have just seen the new window 
put up in the church." 

" But do you mean you never knew this before ? " 

Here, at last, was the key to the schoolmistress's 
emotion. She had read and taught that our Lord was 
crucified, but what crucifixion meant was completely un- 
known to her. It was the stained glass window with the 
scene of the crucifixion which first disclosed to her the real 
significance of that mode of death. 

What was concealed from this schoolmistress might 



i 4 4 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



well be unknown to multitudes who vaguely knew the story 
of our Lord, but had never realized the actual details of 
what had occurred. Words did not always explain them- 
selves. The word " crucifixion " did not of itself explain 
its meaning to the mere English reader. Pictures were 
useful adjuncts to instruction : we taught through the ear, 
but why should we not teach through the eye also ? Good 
Friday was only a day of mere relaxation of work to thou- 
sands upon thousands. The story of the day : the suffering 
of the Saviour : the sweet patience : the loving thoughtful- 
ness for others : the pang of loneliness : the persistent 
malice of the chief priests : the hard indifference of others ; 
these things might possibly be completely unknown to the 
multitudes who only welcomed Good Friday as a curious 
day in which many people had a holiday and some were 
seen going to church. 

Thoughts of this kind awakened the wish to mark the 
day by some special effort to tell the story of the day to 
those who treated it with indifference, and never went to 
church. Hence the Good Friday Committee. 

At first there was difficulty : the clergy of Leeds were 
not sympathetic ; they feared that such a meeting would 
compete with the church services. For a year we had to 
hold our hands : then, after a meeting in which I set my 
views before the clergy, I was rewarded by their acquiescence. 
I promised that the special service should not begin till the 
usual evening services were over. I told them that I pro- 
posed that the committee should consist of all the beneficed 
clergy of Leeds, together with five lay representatives from 
each parish. Thus the committee was formed. Practically 



GOOD FRIDAY 



H5 



the work was done by the lay members of the committee. 
As there were fifty parishes in Leeds, the nominal strength 
of the lay members of the committee was two hundred and 
fifty. They came together willingly : two hundred and 
fifty men, who were occupied in hard and onerous work all 
through the week : they comprised men of all kinds of 
calling ; but, speaking generally, they were all what would 
be called working men. Dear, good, strong, sturdy, simple- 
hearted, Christ-loving, loyal men — a joy and a support to 
me for more than twenty years. 

We met for consultation, for prayer, for social inter- 
course, for recreation ; we learned by experience the best 
way of carrying out our object : soon, men possessed of 
special skill came forward, and gave us the valuable aid 
which only experts can give. One man, skilled in the use 
of lantern slides, became our operator, and through the 
many years of our work never once failed us ; another, 
once a sergeant in the army, undertook the task of building 
the platform ; besides special work such as these, the work 
of the committee was to distribute the tickets for our Good 
Friday service. This was a task which needed judgment as 
well as zeal. Our aim was to invite and admit only men 
who went to no place of worship : we wished to reach those 
who were outside the influence of ordinary religious organi- 
zations. It is to the credit of the committee that this task 
was so well fulfilled. The further duty of the committee 
was to act as stewards on the night of the service. Thus 
we had scattered throughout the hall of meeting, two 
hundred and fifty men, members of the committee, dis- 
tinguished by the badge of their stewardship. It was in 



146 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



1890 that we made our first attempt to hold this special 
service : Good Friday fell that year upon April 4. The 
only hall available that year was the drill hall — a large 
empty building, destitute of furniture. As the hall was 
not even provided with seats, we had to do the best we 
could to provide them ourselves. Then I first discovered 
the genuine and solid zeal of the men of my Good Friday 
Committee. No difficulties daunted them. Seats were 
needed : sitting accommodation must be provided. If we 
could not have seats, we would hire boards. Boards were 
brought in : rough benches supported upon blocks of wood 
soon filled the hall. The men worked hard, bravely and 
quickly. The vigorous earnestness of the committee 
overcame all obstacles. The night came : the platform on 
which I was to stand was provided. At a distance from this, 
in the centre of the hall, another platform was erected for 
the lantern : Mr. Reed, of whom I have spoken, had charge 
of the lantern : near him sat my wife, who handed to him 
the slides as they were required, keeping to the order which 
she and I had arranged beforehand. 

It was an anxious moment when the hour came for 
the service, which was an experiment and, in the view of 
some, an innovation : the hall was full of men : the hymns, 
which were thrown upon the screen, were taken up with 
zest. There was no organ, but the committee led the sing- 
ing with such energy, that soon it seemed that the whole 
assembly had joined in the hymn. Happily it was York- 
shire, and in the West Riding of Yorkshire they know 
how to sing^ 

It was at this meeting that I had a small experience 



GOOD FRIDAY 147 

of telepathic influence : for a moment I feared that my 
memory would fail on a matter which, especially at 
an experimental service, might be of importance. In 
arranging the order in which the slides were to appear, we 
had put them into four or five groups : each group was 
divided off from the others by a hymn, for we had three 
hymns, I think, at intervals during the address. My task 
was to remember the slides which were to appear in these 
several groups. When we had reached the last hymn but 
one, and while they were singing it, I bethought myself 
that I had better run over in my mind the slides in the 
order in which they were needed in the next group. I 
went over the first three or four, and then my mind was 
blank : I could not pick up the recollection of the next 
slide. Time was running on : the verses of the hymn 
were diminishing : I must recall the whole number of 
remaining slides : I was lost for want of the fourth or fifth 
slide, which I could not recall. The fear that I could not 
recall it in time only served to paralyse my power of recol- 
lection. Then I deliberately tried telepathy. 1 set my 
mind hard to influence my wife's mind, and I mentally 
asked her. What is the fourth or fifth slide for the next 
group ? Then, as if by magic, after a short but sensible 
interval, it came back to me, and I was able to follow the 
order of the closing slides. 

Now there is nothing remarkable in this so-called 
telepathic experience. Indeed, it will be said, as I said 
to myself at the time, there is no evidence of any telepathy 
here ; all that happened was, that the memory recovered 
itself, and gave back the missing slide. Yes, that is just 



148 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



what I said to myself might have been the case ; but I 
carried the matter a little further : I wished to ascertain 
whether, at the moment when 1 was mentally asking for the 
slide, my wife was aware of my influence upon her mind ; 
so, without telling her of my experience, I questioned her 
about the service and the singing ; and then she told me 
that when the last hymn but one was being sung, she was 
enjoying the wholehearted way in which the men were 
joining : she was happy in just listening to the volume of 
sound given forth by such united singing. While thus just 
listening, it came suddenly into her mind that she must go 
over the slides for the next group, and accordingly she did 
so. It came as a kind of necessity upon her at the moment 
when I was exerting my mind to influence hers for that 
very thing. I am not pressing this as an instance of 
genuine telepathic influence, for it is obvious enough that 
the experience both of myself and my wife might be 
accounted for in another way ; but I may here say that the 
experience does not stand alone. More than once I tried 
the same mental effort with the object of arresting my wife's 
attention and getting her help, and, whatever the full and 
true explanation may be, I found the experiment successful. 

For example, once when I was holding an ordination in 
the private chapel at Ripon, I noticed, in the middle of the 
Litany, that the Bibles and New Testaments which were to 
be given to the candidates for Orders, had been forgotten, 
and were not in their place at hand. I was at the east end 
of the chapel : my wife was at the extreme west end ; but 
again I fixed my mind to arrest her attention : I fastened it 
on the thought of the missing books : I looked towards 



GOOD FRIDAY 149 

her : she saw my look, and in a moment, without any 
hesitation, she sent some one for the missing books and they 
were brought in. These are trifling matters from one point 
of view ; but they were not trifling at the time, and the 
success of my experiments, however they are to be ex- 
plained, was a great relief to me both in the chapel and 
in the drill hall. 

The service in the drill hall was the beginning of the 
work which my Good Friday Committee carried on with 
me for twenty-two years. Our first service was held in 
1890 : and it was held for the twenty-second time in 191 1, 
my last year as Bishop of Ripon. I took the service, by 
the wish of the present Bishop of Ripon, in 1914, but 
this lies a little outside my own record, though it was a joy 
to meet again those loyal helpers, who for upwards of 
twenty years had never failed me. 

The bonds between us were drawn more closely as 
the years went on. We understood one another : we loved 
one another. We had taken several excursions together, 
and an intercourse when visiting towns of interest, in meet- 
ing the fatigues and pleasures of the journey, served to 
make strong the bonds of a friendship which was begun 
in a joint endeavour to be of help to our brother men. 

The excursions — we had fifteen in all — included, besides 
our house at Ripon, Brussels, Cambridge, Oxford, Windsor, 
Belfast, London, Chester, York and Ryther. The tale of 
our adventures on these excursions would be too long to 
tell. Brussels was, I think, the most remarkable, as it was 
the most adventurous of them all. It was not to be 
expected that many could afford the time or money for 



150 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

a visit to Brussels — nevertheless, as many as fifty joined in 
the trip. They left Leeds on the Friday night before 
Whit Sunday : they reached Brussels early on Saturday : 
we took them out to Waterloo : there we had lunch ; we 
brought them back to Brussels and took them to the 
Exposition, which was then open. The engineering section 
attracted some of our party, and it was amusing to see an 
eager Englishman trying to get a mechanical explanation 
from a Belgian who knew no English. We had to act as 
interpreters on more than one occasion. We had, indeed, 
more than one laughter-provoking experience. The men 
were much impressed when they saw, as they journeyed 
through Flanders, the women working in the fields. 
"Eh," said one of the party, "the next time I marry, I 
shall marry one of ! these women who can work, and 
besides, when she scolds me I shall not understand her." 

The buildings in Brussels were a kind of revelation to 
some of the party. " This," said one of them, as we came 
up to the Palais des Beaux Arts, " this reminds me of the 
age of Sardanapalus ! " On the Sunday we attended the 
English Church : it was an imposing party which entered 
the church that morning : more than fifty of us, all of 
whom joined lustily in the singing. " Aye, didn't we lift 
the roof off ?" was what was said. We made a goodly 
addition to the number of the communicants in the little 
church. 

On Monday we went to Antwerp, saw the churches and 
the Zoological Gardens, and returned to Brussels in time 
for dinner, after which the party started back for England 
and were landed at Leeds on Tuesday morning. 



GOOD FRIDAY 



The arrangements for the excursion were undertaken by 
Messrs. Lunn, and they were admirable. A courier was 
with the party all the time, and he relieved us of a great 
many small details of business : he made himself respon- 
sible for the tips and prices of admission to the various 
places we visited. I think that our party caused great 
astonishment to the hotel-keepers : the party was scattered 
for sleeping purposes among three hotels ; but all met for 
the principal meals in one hotel. The men of the com- 
mittee were accustomed to sing the grace before and after 
their meals, and when the fifty men lifted up their voices 
for the purpose, there was grave astonishment, which 
bordered on alarm, among the officials of the hotel. 
However, before the Monday was over, they had accepted 
the position, and no doubt regarded the singing as another 
proof of the madness of the English. 

The Brussels excursion was in every way a great success, 
and I feel sure that many of those who were with us in 
1 897 feel their interest in that happy excursion deepened now 
as they have read of all the savage and wanton cruelties 
which an unscrupulous and ruthless enemy has brought 
upon that land which we saw then peaceful, industrious 
and happy, little dreaming then that sinister ambition would 
tempt a powerful people to violate their pledged word and 
stain their honour with a stain which centuries of virtue can 
hardly wash away. 

Perhaps next to this visit to Brussels our excursion to 
Belfast possessed the greatest interest : it had a characteristic 
of its own ; for it was marked by the ready hospitality shown 
by the working men of Belfast to those of Leeds, 



152 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

It came about in this way. The Bishop of Down and 
Connor (Dr. Welland) had been a lifelong friend : his 
father and my father had been friends, and the friendship 
descended to the next generation. To Dr. Welland I 
owed much : in days when I was a schoolboy, and he was 
an undergraduate, working hard for honours, he came as a 
visitor to our house. He was a most industrious student, 
and I admired the indefatigable diligence which he showed 
even in those days which he might have reckoned as holidays. 
It so happened that I was at that time face to face with a 
step forward in my education : I had to commence Greek, 
and in the initial stages our guest, Mr. Welland, gave me 
useful help. I used to say in after years that he taught me 
my Greek alphabet. Time went by : he found himself 
bewildered in a question which in those days exercised the 
minds of theological students in a degree which would 
amaze the students of to-day. There were those who, lay- 
ing heavy emphasis on the doctrine of Election, would have 
it that our Lord's death purchased, as it were, the body of 
the elect, and only these : the benefits of His death and 
sacrifice did not avail for others. Only the elect would 
be saved, therefore only the elect had been redeemed, 
otherwise the sacrifice was in part a failure, which was 
unthinkable. The question, therefore, which was raised 
took this form : Did Christ die for all men or for the elect 
only ? The Calvinistic view, as it was called most unfairly, 
for it was contrary to Calvin's teaching — the Calvinistic 
view or the view which advocated a limited redemption by 
Christ's death, fascinated young Mr. Welland. My father, 
who took a deep interest in him, wrote a long letter on 



GOOD FRIDAY 



J 53 



the subject, and the letter was the means of liberating 
Mr. Welland's mind from the narrow and harsh concep- 
tions of this so-called Calvinistic doctrine. 

Later, when I had won an open scholarship at Cam- 
bridge, and we were spending the summer in Ireland, Mr. 
Welland again helped me by coaching me in mathematics : 
and three or four years afterwards, on the Sunday after my 
ordination, the first church in which I officiated was the 
church in Dublin in which Mr. Welland ministered. Thus 
in the earlier part of my life my lot was often cast near to 
Mr. Welland. Years passed by, and our lives were sun- 
dered ; he remained in Ireland : my lot was cast in England : 
and during those years we scarcely saw one another. In 
process of time he became Bishop of Down and I became 
Bishop of Ripon, and I ventured to invite him to come over 
and preach for our diocesan charities. He kindly came, and 
our friendship revived. While he was with us I had to 
meet my Good Friday Committee, and he accompanied me. 
He did more : he spoke a few kindly words to the men, 
and as he heard of our excursions he very cordially invited 
the committee to visit Belfast. 1 think that the Bishop 
was surprised at the alacrity with which his invitation was 
accepted ; the moment he mentioned the idea, the consent- 
ing acquiescence and appreciation of the meeting expressed 
itself in long and loud plaudits. 

So the visit to Belfast was arranged, and as it happened, 
it was fixed for a most appropriate time : it coincided with 
the opening of the Belfast Cathedral. It was marked 
by the warm and generous hospitality of these northern 
men of Ireland. A committee of working men, brought 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



together in much the same way as our Leeds committee, 
aided in arranging the hospitality : in this way every 
member of our Good Friday Committee was received as 
a guest during his stay in Belfast. More than this, on our 
arrival, we found that an excursion to the Giant's Causeway 
had been arranged. This meant that we were conveyed to 
Portrush by train, that lunch was provided for us on the 
train, that from Portrush to the Giant's Causeway we were 
taken by the light railway. We rambled over the great 
mass of pillared stones. The angles formed by the 
stones had been discussed, and one of our party was thence- 
forward intent upon finding what he called c< the octopus 
stone " — " I want to find that octopus stone." At every 
point some unexpected and unknown friend appeared eager 
and ready to help us on our way. We returned to Belfast 
in the evening : on Sunday we attended the cathedral. On 
Monday we saw the great dockyards of Harland and WolfT : 
the Baltic , if I remember rightly, was nearing completion. 
We saw over her, and her name became familiar to us later 
on ; for on the occasion of my two visits to the United 
States, in 1904 and 191 2, we travelled by the Baltic^ and 
found her to be a steady and comfortable vessel. 

The members of our Good Friday Committee left 
Belfast amid the warm cheers and enthusiastic farewells 
of the Belfast men, whose hospitality they had enjoyed. 
Friendships were formed, and a happy sense of brotherly 
kindness between the two cities was created. Our com- 
mittee greatly wished to return the hospitality of our Irish 
friends ; but, unfortunately, some difficulties arose which 
prevented the realization of this hope ; but I have very 



GOOD FRIDAY 



155 



little doubt that the interchange of visits between the 
working men of different towns works for good in creating 
good feeling and a good understanding based on mutual 
respect and sympathy. 

Our excursions to other places had their peculiar interest. 
I think that our working men will never forget the personal 
interest and almost princely hospitality which was shown 
them by the Warden of Merton (Mr. Brodrick) when we 
visited Oxford, or the lunch given us in Trinity College 
Hall the day we visited Cambridge. 

These little sketches will seem dull and uninteresting to 
my readers ; but, dear reader, forgive me. If you had 
known these dear men of Leeds as I knew them, if you 
had seen their devotion to our task, their natural chivalry 
towards my wife and daughter during these excursions, 
their heartiness, their generosity, you would find in every 
chronicle of their sayings and doings a deep and abiding 
interest. 

I might chronicle some of their sayings: 1 might tell 
the tale of other excursions, but, full of interest as these 
were, I am inclined to think that perhaps their visits to us 
at Ripon were among the happiest of our experiences. On 
the two excursions to distant places only a certain propor- 
tion, something from thirty to forty per cent, of our members, 
could command the necessary time ; but when they came to 
Ripon, nearly all could come for the whole or part of the day. 
Moreover, they could bring their wives with them, and this 
gave an added zest to their enjoyment. Then games and 
contests were planned : prizes competed for ; we had lunch 
in the open air, if the weather allowed : happily it, generally 



156 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



speaking, was favourable. Our last act on these occasions 
was the little farewell service in the chapel, when the men 
lifted up their voices in hymns of praise. The last act, did 
I say ? No, there was one more, but it was not on the 
programme. As they went out, they clustered round the 
porch, and one of their number proposed a vote of thanks 
to my wife and myself ; it was readily seconded, and carried 
with cheers ; and then, amid cheers and waving of hats 
and hands, our dear friends of the committee left us, and 
they left behind the benediction of their simple-minded 
loyalty, their hopefulness, their helpfulness, and their 
prayers. 

As a token of the bond of our common work, I designed 
a badge for the members of the Good Friday Committee. 
It was in the form of a Maltese or eight-pointed cross. 
The eight points represented the eight Beatitudes : here, 
then, was the cross lying within the circle of the Beatitudes. 
The cross — the highest symbol of self-sacrificing love — -had 
too often been employed as the emblem of persecuting 
bigotry. It was needful to remind the Church, and the 
Knights of Malta set up their symbol to do so, that the 
cross ought to be carried in the Spirit of Christ. To make 
this clear, our badge bore monograms which represented 
the initials of the leading words in the Beatitudes. Happi- 
ness, we reminded ourselves, does not lie in merely bearing 
the name of Christ, but in being filled with the spirit of 
Christ. On the other side of the badge we had the XP, 
the monogram of Christ, and the words Beati in Christo 
(Xto). Thus the badge claimed our loyalty to our Lord, 
not in letter only but in spirit. 



GOOD FRIDAY 



157 



The Beatitudes became the little canticle of our meetings. 
Whenever we met for prayer, we united in saying together 
the Beatitudes. 

This chapter is a tribute to the loyal-heartedness of 
the body of men who worked with me as brothers in enter- 
prise, and perhaps the best way in which I can close this 
chapter is by adding here the little record which we issued 
as a souvenir when we had completed the full twenty-one 
years of joint work. The souvenir gives the memorial 
letter which I wrote as a record and a farewell to my 
much-loved comrades : it gave also the list of places which 
were included in our periodical excursions. Those who 
know what bonds of confidence are created and strength- 
ened by common work and common travel, will realize 
how strong was the tie which bound us together and how 
affectionate are the memories which remain. 

Here, also, I gladly record the fact that the Good Friday 
Service is still held, and that it was conducted this year 
(19 1 6) under conditions which seem to promise its happy 
continuance. I am grateful to those whose fostering care 
has made this possible, and I can only hope and pray that 
future vicars of Leeds will show the same loving care 
which the present vicar (Dr. Bickersteth) has shown in the 
enterprise, and that future bishops of Ripon will support 
it with the same kind sympathy which the present bishop 
(Dr. Drury) has given. 



158 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



GOOD FRIDAY MEMORIES, 1 890-1 911 
EXCURSIONS OF THE GOOD FRIDAY COMMITTEE. 



TO THE MEMBERS OF THE GOOD 
FRIDAY COMMITTEE 

On the 4th of April, 1890, we made our first attempt 
to have a Special Service for Men on Good Friday Even- 
ing ; we met that night in the Drill Hall ; the Drill Hall 
was not provided with seats, so we were obliged to bring in 
boards and build up rough benches as best we could. In 
this the vigorous earnestness of the members of the 
committee showed itself ; and difficulties were overcome. 

In the next year, 1891, we met in the Town Hall for 
the first time, and since that date our service has been held 
there. We tried an experiment in 189 J, however, which 
we did not repeat ; before the service in the Town Hall, 



London 
Chester 

The Palace, Ripon 



The Palace, Ripon 
The Palace, Ripon 
Liverpool . 
Brussels 

The Palace, Ripon 
Cambridge . 
Oxford 

The Palace, Ripon 

Windsor 

Belfast 

The Palace, Ripon 



Ryther 



York 



July 19th, 1890. 

July 1893. 

Summer 1895. 

June 4th to 7th, 1897. 

1899. 

May 26th, 1900. 
June 29th, 1 90 1. 
July 26th, 1902. 
August 15th, 1903. 
June 3rd to 6th, 1904. 
July 15th, 1905. 
July 7th, 1906. 
August 31st, 1907. 
June 27th, 1908. 
July 27th, 191 1. 
September 1 6th, 1 9 1 1 . 



GOOD FRIDAY 



159 



we held a service at the Miners' Hall. Good Friday that 
year fell upon March 27th, the day after my Jubilee of 
life ; so that I was fifty when we held our first Town Hall 
service, and I was seventy when we held our last service this 
year. 

I am glad to know that my successor will continue to 
hold the service, if we can secure permission to use the 
Town Hall. I am glad for every reason ; we should not 
like to see the service discontinued ; it has, we venture to 
believe, been a means of doing good ; it stands, moreover, 
for ideas which we wish to keep before the minds of men. 
It is the witness that there are great truths and abiding facts 
connected with Good Friday. To commemorate a birthday 
is common enough ; to commemorate a day of death is in 
the history of religions unusual ; no note of triumph is 
heard when a great leader or teacher passes away, but the 
death of Jesus Christ our Lord awakens a whole series of 
thoughts which have brought to the Christian world a teach- 
ing more noble and more permanent than surrounds the 
cradle of great men. The world is not to be won except 
by the Cross ; it is only when we learn to die that we learn 
to live ; it is only when we lose ourselves that we truly 
find ourselves. This truth enters into the heart of Christian 
teaching ; it is symbolized in our Baptism ; it is continually 
commemorated in Holy Communion ; we are buried with 
Christ in Baptism ; we avow ourselves partakers of His 
death in the Holy Communion. 

Thus the death of Christ becomes the witness of an 
abiding fact ; the death was a fact in history, but it becomes 
an abiding fact, for it needs to be a fact in our spiritual 



160 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



history also ; only as we share this great sacrificial spirit of 
Christ do we fulfil the end and purpose of our Creator ; 
for we can only reach the highest by sharing the spirit of 
the highest, and the spirit of the highest is love, and sacrifice 
of self for love's sake is the supreme test and witness on 
earth of the Spirit of Love. 

We, as a committee, have represented varying schools 
of thought ; some members have been connected with 
churches which might be called High ; some with those 
which might be called Low ; and others moderate and 
others broad. But by whatever name the world might 
call us, we were united in the desire of glorifying Christ 
by proclaiming the power of His Cross, and by carrying it 
in the spirit which He taught and showed. 

And so, the badge which we have worn for many years 
past has expressed this principle. The Cross of Christ 
carried in the Spirit of Christ. Too often the Cross has 
been uplifted in the world in a spirit the very opposite of 
that of our Lord. It has been lifted up in arrogance, and 
in pride ; it has been held aloft as the victim writhed and 
perished under the persecuting hand of cruel and Christless 
men ; it has been clung to as a charm ; it has been saluted 
as a banner on the battlefield ; its original value and virtue 
has been forgotten ; worldly thoughts and ambitions have 
overlaid its first beautiful significance ; but through all the 
perversions and ignorances which have grown around it ? 
there have been men and women who held to the spiritual 
principles which it expressed ; these found the inner joy 
which comes to Christlike souls, who have been able to 
say, " I live, yet not I, but Christ liveth in me." 



GOOD FRIDAY 



161 



Our Badge is designed to keep alive this truth, that the 
Cross is to be carried in the Spirit of Christ, for thus only 
will the Beatitude of the Cross be realized. So we took the 
dear words of our Lord, those which tell us what con- 
stitutes the foundation of inward happiness ; the Beatitudes 
became the little canticle of our meetings, and when we 
sought to gather together men to hear the Story of Divine 
Love, we knew that we were striving to bring them to that 
joy which is within — the joy not of outward possessions, 
but of that disposition of soul which could find gladness 
independent of earthly conditions, and which in the con- 
sciousness that God's love shone all through life could 
understand that there was a gladness in sacrifice as well as 
in success, and could, therefore, enter intelligently and 
heartily into that exclamation of St. Paul, " God forbid 
that I should glory, save in the Cross of our Lord Jesus 
l Christ, by whom the world is crucified unto me, and 1 unto 
the world." 

The only way, dear friends, to live in the world is to 
live with hearts above the world ; and the only way to live 
above the world without conceit or cynicism is to live in 
the Spirit of Him Who loved us and gave Himself 
for us. 

I have put down these thoughts, as they express — though 
lamely — the aim which has been ours in the mission work 
to which we have put our hands for more than twenty 
years. We have thought together of Christ's character and 
of the Love which inspired it, of Him who saved others, 
not Himself ; we have sought to explore the heart of this 
happiness which was stronger than shame and pain ; we 

M 



1 62 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



have marked the consistency of His Love in utterance and 
in action ; we have seen the difference between the Cross 
met with petulant resentment and the Cross carried in love ; 
we have noted the Cross as the sign of the victory of good, 
as the symbol of spiritual freedom, changing the attitude of 
the world towards suffering ; we have touched on the power 
of that Cross in the history of mankind ; we have seen how 
it tests character, and humbles and elevates the soul, banish- 
ing the evil dreams of sin and unfolding the all-embracing, 
all-sustaining power of love ; and lastly, we have marked 
the loyalty of Christ's love to man, and we have felt that 
the Cross is a challenge and call to our loyalty to Him 
who revolutionized the world by the revelation of the 
Father's Love. 

These have been some of our thoughts — may He who 
lived them and inspired them enable us all to live in 
Him, and to breathe forth the beatitude of His presence 
wherever we go. 

This little preface to a souvenir of our meetings I write 
for you, my dear brothers in Christ, who for twenty-one 
years have given your time, your work, your prayers, your 
patience and your love to an enterprise which has been dear 
to us all and has bound us together in the realization of a 
love which change cannot disturb and which death cannot 
destroy. 

W. BOYD CARPENTER. 

6 The Little Cloisters, 

Westminster, S.W. 

Christmas, 1911. 



GOOD FRIDAY 



i 



CHRIST IN THE SPIRIT OF CHRIST. 

THE BADGE MEANS 

On one side- — 

XP(R), i. e. the first two Greek letters of the name Christ. 
Beati in Xto. i.e. Blessed in Christ. 

On the other — 

Four Monograms, viz : 

1. PHMC. Poor — Heaven. Mourn — Comforted. 

2. MEHF. Meek— Earth. Hunger— Filled. 

3. MPG. Merciful — Mercy. Pure— God. 

4. PCPRK. Peacemaker — Children. Persecuted for 

Righteousness — Kingdom. 

The Badge thus reminds us of the Eight Beatitudes (Matt, 
v. 1—9). It tells again who are truly blessed. Happiness 
does not lie in bearing the name of Christ, but in being filled 
with the Spirit of Christ (Rom. viii. 9). 

Those who wear this Badge bind themselves to seek to make 
Christ in all things pre-eminent (Col. i. 18), and to begin to do 
so by seeking to make the Spirit of Christ the pre-eminent power 
in their spirits. They will not be content to do the work of 
Christ unless they do it in the Spirit of Christ. 

It is suggested that those who wear this Badge should 
(1) repeat to themselves every week the Eight Beatitudes, adding 
a prayer for the Holy Spirit's help to enable them to live in the 
Spirit of Christ ; (2) remember one another at Holy Communion 
once a month. 



FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDSHIP 



It is ill writing one's reminiscences, if one can only 
chronicle human affairs. Man's life, no doubt, is social, 
and the interplay of mutual influences, thoughts and 
emotions contributes to its interest ; but man is surrounded 
by creatures of humbler creation, as we say ; and man's 
treatment of these creatures measures his character, and 
they in their turn influence his moral growth. Professor 
Huxley used to say that he respected the house of which 
the cat was an honoured inmate ; he felt that a certain 
largeness of humane feeling was indicated by the affection 
and care bestowed upon the harmless, necessary cat. How- 
ever this may be, I can chronicle the way in which a cat 
claimed and won a place — yes, a very kindly place, in my 
regard. 

Betty — I called her so — Betty was not beautiful ; she 

could not claim admiration for her long silky hair, for her 

brilliant colouring or her alluring eyes. She had no record 

of infantile attractions on which she could rely ; she did s 

not come to us as a fluffy round ball, full of fascinating 

kittenish ways, hunting some rolling thing or prettily 

entangling herself in a ball of string. She had no claim of 

young, graceful movements or mature beauty on which to 

rely for her maintenance. She just came to us — how, I do 

164 



FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDSHIP 165 



not know ; in fact, she planted herself upon us without 
invitation or apology. And she was not beautiful ; she 
was just commonplace — a grey tabby cat, and not fair to 
look upon when measured by other tabbies ; she was lean, 
grey and unkempt in appearance. Yet, with all her dis- 
advantages, she won an established position among us ; her 
quiet persistency, her quiet assumption that we could not 
refuse her hospitality ; her faith in bur goodness was a 
subtle and successful kind of flattery, and we succumbed ; 
and Betty became an inmate of our house. 

I was then at 50 Highbury Hill — the house I occupied 
when I was Vicar of St. James's, Holloway — and Betty 
became by degrees my study companion. Perhaps the 
children were too noisy and too demonstrative in their 
attentions ; the dining-room had attractions, no doubt, but 
the nurseries were too vibrant with startling activities ; 
there was peace in the study, and so Betty found her way 
to the study and was my comrade while I read or wrote. 
She soon discovered the cosiest corner in which to repose ; 
she selected the one easy chair, and curled herself up in it 
with calm dignity ; she had appropriated it as her own, and 
had I been never so desirous of lounging in it, I believe I 
should never have dared to assert my claim. To do so 
would have seemed to have infringed sovereign and well- 
established rights. In reposeful comfort, therefore, Betty 
yawned and stretched, curled up and slept in the soft arm- 
chair. I can hear the critic say : " And you really tolerated 
this utterly selfish conduct ? " Dear critic, I did ; call me 
weak, if you will ; but bethink you, Betty was a refugee 
who sought my protection and hospitality. She dreaded 



1 66 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



the children ; but even more she dreaded the onslaughts 
of Charley. Let me explain : " Charley " was my aunt's 
dog. She had come to keep house for me, and she could 
not be parted from Charley. Charley, to my unsympathetic 
mind, was a most detestable dog ; he was by way of being 
an English terrier, but I doubted the purity of his pedigree ; 
he was broad-set, brawny, self-indulgent, arrogant ; he 
would tolerate no rival ; cats he regarded as belonging to 
a despised race ; they were to be hunted, harassed, chased 
and chivied wherever they were found. So Charley at once 
declared war upon Betty, and the only sanctuary open to 
Betty was my study. There she sought and found peace ; 
there Charley never came ; and there, there was to be found 
an inoffensive and quiet creature, who welcomed her and 
allowed her the choice of the most comfortable chair. From 
the storm and turmoil of the house, and from the outrageous 
persecutions of Charley, Betty sought and found an asylum 
in my study. 

And Betty became very companionable. At first she 
was content to slumber in my armchair ; but after a time 
she began to show an interest in me ; her interest then 
grew to what I may call a grateful affection ; and she used 
to descend from the chair, leap upon my writing-table 
and put out a timid and appealing paw, as much as to say : 
" We are companions in misfortune, and we are happy in 
this quiet refuge." If I continued writing, she would pat 
my pen and demand my attention. I soon understood her : 
she wanted to be talked to and to be petted ; so I would 
stroke her and talk soothing nothings to her. She seemed 
to enjoy it all, and was reluctant to leave me. Then I 



FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDSHIP 167 



would say : " Now, Betty, that is enough ; I have work to 
do, and you must go back to the chair." She soon under- 
stood, and would be content if once or twice in the 
morning she might jump on the table and be petted and 
stroked and talked to ; then she would gravely and grace- 
fully retire to her slumbers. She was only an ugly, 
uninteresting tabby ; but she had affection, and she showed 
a real interest in the man who stood to her as protector and 
comrade. 

Probably the sad loneliness of that time heightened my 
sense of Betty's companionship. There were moments in 
which I felt that she and I were the victims of common 
misfortunes ; we were both lonely, and we both desired 
quiet. So a subtle sympathy drew us together. If you 
talk to an animal much, and give it your trust and tell it 
your confidences, you humanize it by degrees, and a bond 
of common feeling will grow up between it and you. I 
know that I felt sympathy with Betty ; I think that she 
had, in some sub-conscious fashion, some sympathy with 
me. 

" Cats have no personal attachment. Their love is for 
places, not for people." This is the common opinion, I 
believe. It was expressed, I remember, when I had to 
migrate from Highbury Hill to Paddington. " You will 
never take Betty with you," some one said ; " she will 
remain with the house ; she will never accept a changed 
residence." So the opinion went. However, I believed in 
Betty's attachment, and I took her with us when we moved. 
I brought her to my study in Queen's Gardens ; the old 
chair was there ; the writing-table was there, and I was 



1 68 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



there ; and Betty accepted all ; she showed no signs of 
uneasiness. She slept in the chair ; she leaped on the table 
for her mid-morning caress ; she patted my pen till I put 
it down and stroked her and talked to her. The change of 
house did not trouble her. She had what she wanted and 
she was content. Like human beings, she found quiet and 
comfort in kindness and in familiar things ; so the old 
habits of friendly intercourse were continued as before ; in 
the new house the attachments were the same as they had 
been in the old. 

Do you wonder that I grew fond of Betty ? Do you 
wonder that I felt for her in the hard, harsh days when 
Charley and the children terrified her ? Do you wonder 
that in those days I commemorated Betty in the following 
fashion ? — 

POOR BETTY. 

Poor Betty, with your soft warm fur 

And gentle loving ways, 
You only of the household now 

Bear memory of past days. 

The cosy fender was your own, 

Where peacefully you purred, 
There one fond hand would stroke your coat, 

And speak the kindly word. 

Then you would rise and arch your back, 

And give contented yawn ; 
Or rub your cheek confidingly 

As nearer you were drawn. 

Or you would bound the staircase up, 

And purr and leap before 
The steps of her who welcomed you 

Within her chamber door. 



FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDSHIP 169 



And you would sit beside her hand 

And peer within the glass ; 
Or leap upon her shoulder 

And round her fair neck pass. 

And she, she loved you well, poor Bet, 

And watched your kittens play, 
For she loved all joyous guileless things, 

With her bright, pure heart of May. 

But now the warm sweet love of home, 

Has passed from out the door, 
The children all are scattered 

And the mistress gone before. 

Strange faces round the kitchen glance, 

Strange hands light up the stove, 
Strange voices in the house are heard, 

Strange feet on stairways move. 

The hard, rough dog your peace assails, 

And wearies you with chase, 
Snatches your best-loved morsel, 

And curls up in your place. 

Your presence meets with doubtful looks, 

No welcome voice you hear, 
No gentle hand caresses you, 

Or fondly draws you near. 

Poor Betty, you are lonely now, 

Ah ! Betty ! so am I ! 
You crave to meet a touch of love, 

Poor Betty, so do I ! 

Yet come, poor Bet, sit near me now ; 

We both may take some ease ; 
Enjoy this quiet, foe-free hour, 

Be still, and purr in peace. 

" George " was, for a season, the chief personage in our 
house at Ripon. From the hour when he first came to us 



170 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



till the day when he breathed his last, he was unique and 
supreme, the centre of attraction. 

George — when he came to us — was a dear, round, fluffy 
ball of a creature, who could lie on one's hand — a wrinkled- 
faced, black-nosed pug he was — a delight, a curiosity, a 
charm. He grew to be an institution. Let little people 
learn how important they may become. If they knew the 
story of George's powerful reign, they might take courage. 
The early days of George's life were days of affectionate 
admiration. All sorts of sweet and kindly nonsense were 
poured into his ears. He learned to take everything for 
granted, and he learned quickly. The one thing which, 
perhaps, he was slow to learn was that church was a pro- 
hibited area. We thought we had taught him this fairly 
well, before we took him to Niton, in the Isle of Wight, 
where we had hired a house for a few weeks in the summer. 
But whether George thought that the Isle of Wight was 
under different laws from Ripon, or whether he thought 
that laws were suspended during vacation time, I cannot 
tell ; but the fact is that, though we thought him left at 
home in safe security, he pursued us to church. When he 
arrived at the church door he was smitten, I suppose, with 
modesty or influenced by reverence ; for he did not search 
us out in our seat. He contented himself with taking 
refuge under a seat near the church door. How long he 
would have remained there in decorous silence I cannot 
say ; but an accident cut short his laudable quietude. It 
was a hot summer day, and drowsy insects were on the 
wing. Among them an active wasp intruded into the 
church, and dived down to where George sat with quiet and 



FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDSHIP 171 

patient dignity. I fear that the wasp was guilty of some 
assault ; for George on a sudden roused some sleepy 
members of the congregation, as he dashed precipitately 
from the church. This, I believe, was George's solitary 
act of transgression of the established order of Sunday and 
church. 

George was an imitative creature. At one time we had 
two great St. Bernard dogs, yclept Dante and Gemma — 
Dan and Gem for short. They were fine creatures — good- 
tempered and friendly ; but they aroused, I think, some 
jealousy in George's breast. He would sometimes, perhaps 
in play, but more probably, I think, in resentful jealousy, 
assail them ; they bore it with good-natured toleration for 
a time, but occasionally, when George's persistence became 
offensive, they would give him a warning nip. In the 
winter, when the snow was on the ground, the joy of the 
St. Bernard dogs was supreme ; they raced over the land ; 
they buried their noses in the snow and tossed it in the air. 
Then a ludicrous sight might have been seen. George 
would not be behindhand in any performance which 
attracted attention ; but the spectacle of George trying to 
bury his snub nose in the snow, then ridiculously endeavour- 
ing to toss it over his head, was a spectacle of mirth — 
indeed of a mirth which came close to contempt. It is to 
provoke an amusement perilously near to disdain, when 
creatures attempt to do something which is beyond their 
nature or their skill. I think we understood Michel's 
feelings about David, when we saw George trying to sport 
with the snow. 

George was a trial in one serious matter ! We kept 



1 72 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



sheep on the land in Ripon, and gradually there came in 
complaints about George. He was worrying the sheep. 
At first we paid little attention to these complaints. It 
seemed absurd to suppose that a small dog like George 
could do much damage to sheep which were three or four 
times his size ; but the complaints became more frequent 
and more serious, till at last 1 was told that George was 
responsible for the death of no fewer than seven sheep. 
It had become a very grave matter. However much we 
liked George or were diverted by his pranks, it was out of 
the question that we could keep him to prey upon our 
sheep. It was difficult to bring the matter home to George. 
Punishment, if not clearly connected with the offence, was 
useless. At last, however, my opportunity came. As I was 
walking one day up the drive, George suddenly, made for 
the sheep, who fled, frightened, from their foe. I pursued : 
I caught George ; with the help of the bailiff a sheep was 
seized, and then we bound George tight to the sheep's side. 
When we had made the bonds firm and fast, we let the ill- 
matched pair go : George was compelled to go as the sheep 
returned to its comrades ; but I followed, and I chased 
George and the sheep in and out among the other sheep till 
George was faint and tired. Then I gave him, after I 
loosed him, a goodly thrashing. 

Thus George was cured. He had been exposed to three 
painful experiences : fear was his when he found himself 
helplessly bound, dragged and chased among the flying 
and disordered sheep ; disgust was his, for the smell of the 
sheep was odious to him : but he was tied so fast that he 
was compelled to sniff up the oily odour of the sheepskin, 



FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDSHIP 173 

and lastly came pain when his beating reminded him of his 
offence. George was cured : only once afterwards did I see 
a sign that the chasing instinct was not wholly gone. Once 
he made a half-start, as though he would pursue the sheep ; 
but a word of warning checked the impulse, and ever after 
George left the sheep in peace. 

This was George's great offence, and we were all much 
relieved when it was purged. It is ill chronicling the faults 
of one's pets : it is a pleasanter task to record their amusing 
tricks and their virtues. At dinner George was a constant 
source of interested observation. I am afraid that I must 
admit that George was self-indulgent and greedy ; but out 
of his greediness came one of his accomplishments. I 
would place a piece of biscuit a little way from the edge of 
the table : George, standing on his hind legs, would try to 
reach it. If too far for his mouth, he would try to sweep 
it near with his paw. As he succeeded I placed the piece 
further and further from the edge, till at length George, 
educated by failure and success, was able to sweep a fairly 
wide area of the table with his extended paw. With age 
George grew fatter and the exertion of biscuit hunting was 
too much. He loved ease, and he would sit before the fire, 
groaning with a kind of apoplectic enjoyment of the warmth 
and comfort. 

But if George had small accomplishments and some 
faults, he had one great virtue — magnanimity. This was 
displayed in one great and conspicuous instance. We had 
at this time a handsome blue Persian cat — a stately creature 
whom we called Sultan. Sultan was more like a dog than 
a cat in his habits and temper. He never scratched unless 



i 7 4 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



he were attacked : he never showed his claws when an 
accident occurred which might have provoked a nervous 
reaction. I once trod upon him in the dark upon the stairs : 
he only moved himself away with quiet dignity, he showed 
no ill feeling : he understood us and he knew the difference 
between a mishap and an unkindness. Sultan was master 
in his own house : he had his own establishment ; but he 
never allowed one of the kittens to come beyond the pre- 
scribed limits : if one thrust its little nose round the edge 
of the blue baize door which led to the kitchen, it was 
cuffed and sent back by Sultan. It was with regard to 
Sultan that George displayed his magnanimity. George 
and Sultan were rivals. Sultan was privileged and lived a 
good part of his time in my study : he was free of all the 
living rooms ; this was pain and grief to George, who could 
tolerate no rival in our affections, but in spite of jealousy 
George was magnanimous. 

One cold winter night in December, when the snow was 
on the ground, I was awakened by George's barks. George 
slept in the outer hall. I listened to the barking ; I hoped 
that it would soon cease, but George continued to bark at 
intervals, and at last it was clear that I must go down 
and see what was the matter. I descended the stairs and I 
opened the door of the outer hall. George frisked with 
delight and- wagged a welcoming tail. "George," I said, 
"you are a humbug : you only wanted some one to come 
down to talk to you ; there's nothing wrong : you are a 
humbug ; go to sleep, and don't disturb us again." Having 
said this in a solemn and self-assertive way, I began to with- 
draw ; but George would not have it. As I began to close 



FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDSHIP 175 

the door, he barked again, and I had to return. George 
looked wistful : there was evidently something for me to 
do ; but what it was I could not guess ; so, interrupted now 
and then by George's half-barks, I returned, and then I 
understood. Outside the front door I heard the faint mew 
of a- cat. I opened the hall door, and in stalked Sultan, 
proud and indifferent, while George gambolled round him 
with delight. There was a good fire burning in the grate, 
to welcome the exile, who exchanged the snow and the 
bitter cold without for the warmth and shelter. 

George's barking was now explained. I have little doubt 
that his efforts resulted in the saving of Sultan's life ; but 
Sultan treated the incident without emotion : it was George 
who indulged in manifestations of joy. In this there seems 
to lie a parable. 

George received his name because he had the air of 
the first gentleman in Europe, and George retained his fine 
manners to the end. Even when he was ill and under the 
veterinary surgeon's care, his scrupulous maintenance of 
polite usage impressed his host. There was pathos in the 
way George preserved his dignity to the end. 

George was succeeded by Prempeh, a lithe and active 
dachshund. Prempeh was light brown in colour : he moved 
like lightning : he early showed his love of comfort, and 
his power of adapting himself to the ways of the house 
was remarkable. We determined to provide Prempeh with 
a wife, and two candidates were sent to us on approval. 
Prempeh was allowed a free choice : it was soon made. 
After a cold interview with one, a somewhat stout and 
thick-set animal, Prempeh began the most joyous game 



176 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



with the other. Like children they played, and showed 
a touching gladness in each other's society. So the wife 
was chosen : her name was Julia, but we called her Ju. 
They were a happy couple, almost inseparable : indeed, 
they formed a comradeship in wickedness which caused 
not a little trouble ; for they took to hunting, and Ju 
was the instigator of every adventure. 

Near the house was a gravel pit, which was the happy 
home of rabbits. This pit was the realm of temptation to 
Prempeh and Ju. Ju, Eve-like, was the leader. She would 
come to the drawing-room, where Prempeh was reposing in 
happy contentment : she would look at him with eager in- 
vitation in her wicked eyes, and Prempeh would obey. She 
could not carry on the hunting without Prempeh's aid : he 
was smaller, thinner, and more active : it was his part to 
enter the rabbit holes and drive the frightened rabbits before 
him. Ju stationed herself at the further outlet, and stood 
ready to pounce upon the victim as it emerged into the open. 
Such ardent hunters were the pair that they literally cleared 
the pit of rabbits ; and then came their banishment. The 
instinct of hunting was too strong for the couple, and, having 
driven the rabbits from one ground, they extended their 
researches and depredations further afield. They invaded 
our neighbours' land, and soon complaints were made. The 
havoc wrought by Prempeh and Ju was more than our 
neighbours could stand. To cure the couple of the pro- 
pensity, which had become a habit, was impossible. Our 
only resource was to banish them. And so, with much 
regret and many an ache of heart, we found a home for our 
dear little dachshunds : it was far away, somewhere in the 



FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDSHIP 177 



Shakespeare country. I have a photograph of the naughty 
pair, which their new and kind hosts sent us as a remem- 
brance of two of the happiest, most fascinating and most 
mischievous little dogs which ever delighted the hearts of 
their owners. Dear little joyous friends they were: they 
knew the order of the house, and they availed themselves 
of every privilege which that order offered. As soon as 
the servants were stirring, the pair knew that their chance 
had come. They flew up the stairs : they scratched, eager 
and impatient, at our bedroom door : they would take no 
denial. They were admitted ; they leaped upon the bed, and 
buried themselves under the eiderdown quilt. There they 
lay in happy warmth. The bell for chapel would sound, 
but they did not stir ; but the moment the gong sounded 
they were up and tore downstairs. They did not favour 
religion, but they were ready for breakfast. 

In pursuit of food, Prempeh developed extraordinary 
skill. I tried the same plan which I had tried with George. 
I placed a piece of biscuit near the edge of the table : 
Prempeh could not, being small, pat it with his paw and 
draw it within reach ; but Prempeh, being light, could leap. 
He soon learned to leap and seize the morsel with neat 
dexterity. Gradually 1 increased the distance, till the 
biscuit would be six or seven inches from the table edge ; 
and Prempeh would leap and seize it with unerring aim, 
without damaging or disturbing anything on the table. 
He was a beautiful and clever dog, and it was a sorry day 
when we had to part with him and his less nimble but 
more naughty comrade in mischief. 

N 



F. W. ROBERTSON 

I never heard Frederick Robertson preach : I never 

saw him. This was my loss ; but probably I should not 

have been able to appreciate him : I was too young, for 

he died when I was twelve years of age. Mr. Frederick 

Harrison, in his interesting letter to the present Dean of 

Durham, says that, " his appearance, voice and manner were 

the very ideal of a fashionable preacher." The only other 

description of Robertson's preaching which I have heard 

was given me by the late Rev. Canon Money, who was for 

some years Vicar of St. John's, Deptford. It came about 

in this way. We were both present at a meeting, the object 

of which I cannot recall. Among the speakers was one 

who addressed us as a man who was thinking out a subject 

and quietly giving us the result of his thoughts : he had 

not the air of a man who has completely mastered his 

subject, with its divisions and subdivisions and conclusion 

all clearly arranged beforehand ; nor was it the air of a man 

who is nervously anxious , to say what he has to say and to 

get people to agree with them then and there : it was rather 

the air of a man who sees truth coming to him and lets 

others share it as it comes. There was little change in the 

expression of the face : the gestures were few, and not in 

any sense dramatic ; they only added a kind of occasional 

emphasis to what was said. When he had finished and an 

178 



F. W. ROBERTSON 



179 



opportunity came, Canon Money turned to me and said, 
" That is very like the way Robertson preached." 1 have 
no means of endorsing the view thus expressed, for 
Robertson was only a name to me : my only acquaintance 
with him was through that medium by which he held 
converse with the whole world — his published works. 

Everyone knows how widespread was the influence of 
his sermons — how they were read by thousands who would 
never read ordinary books of divinity or the stately dis- 
courses of antiquated divines or the pompous reiteration of 
cant phrases which won the title of " sound " sermons. 

But though I was not privileged to know or hear 
Robertson, I nevertheless seemed to be brought near to 
him by family association. He was, for a time, curate tc 
my uncle Archibald Boyd, then Vicar of Christchurch. 
Cheltenham, and afterwards Dean of Exeter. My aunt 
Fanny often stayed with her brother in Cheltenham, and 
through her I heard much of Fred. Robertson. He was 
a sort of hero to her, at any rate for a time, and she 
would give me vigorous and pathetic sketches of the man 
whom she so greatly admired. 

She has passed away, but among her papers were found 
a little bundle of Robertson's letters. They possess a varied 
interest. Some of them were written when he was travelling 
abroad, and give pictures of his journeyings : some touch 
on his experiences when he was ministering at Oxford : 
some allude to matters at Cheltenham, and others again to 
his task at Brighton. Thus, through my aunt, I was 
brought into closer touch with Robertson than otherwise 
would have been possible. 



i8o FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



My uncle was, I know, somewhat troubled when 
Frederick Robertson's Life first appeared, as it seemed to 
suggest that there had been a personal conflict or quarrel 
between Robertson and himself. This he very emphatically 
denied, and I believe that I am right in saying that the 
publishers were quite ready to give Mr. Boyd an oppor- 
tunity of telling his own story on the subject. I do not, 
however, think that this ever was done. It may therefore 
be interesting if I set down here one other thing which came 
from my uncle on the subject of his relations with Robertson. 

In reading these we ought, I suppose, to recall the 
atmosphere of Cheltenham at the time. The residents 
were orthodox, according to the fashion of the day ; and 
many of them possessed that sleepy character of intellect 
which rests on words and phrases, and resents the intro- 
duction of any new vocabulary which might necessitate 
exertion of mind. 

On one occasion Robertson preached a sermon: I think 
the subject was our Lord's temptation. The pews were 
disturbed : something unlike what was customary had been 
said ; the unexpected had happened, and the unexpected 
must be heresy. Complaints were heard, and letters of 
expostulation were addressed to the vicar, Mr. Boyd. He 
held his peace ; but a few weeks later, he was preaching on 
a kindred topic, and he set forth what he felt to be the 
truth about our Lord's temptation. When the service was 
over, and vicar and curate entered the vestry, Robertson 
turned to my uncle and, with a light in his face, said, 
" Thank you, thank you ; you said what I tried to say." 

I do not, of course, mean to imply by this story more 



F. W. ROBERTSON 



181 



than what applies to the incident in question. I do not 
think that there was, or could have been, absolute intellec- 
tual agreement between my uncle and Robertson on all theo- 
logical points : I think that their formulae would have re- 
mained different on many matters : they were a generation 
apart. But I think that what really happened was this : my 
uncle was able, as he listened to his curate, to discover what 
the congregation missed, the essential ideas which Robertson 
wished to express. The vicar, with greater experience and 
longer practice, was able to say in language more consonant 
with the thoughts of his people what Robertson really wished 
to say. The truth which was uppermost at the moment in 
Robertson's mind was capable of being stated in language 
which would not arouse suspicion. Further, it may be said 
without cynicism that the congregation would listen with 
much less keen scent for heresy to the vicar, whose ortho- 
doxy was taken for granted, than to a curate about whose 
orthodoxy they were not assured. Whether this be a true 
account of the matter or not, the anecdote is pleasant, as it 
shows a magnanimity on the part of both vicar and curate. 

Once, only once according to my uncle, did any shadow 
fall to chill the friendly feelings between Robertson and 
himself. There was a time in which my uncle admitted 
that he became aware that a certain aloofness of feeling 
had arisen between them. It was one of those apparently 
causeless impressions which might contain the seed of later 
personal alienation. It may have had its origin in some 
heedlessly repeated piece of gossip : the theological temper 
of Cheltenham at the time was favourable for the diffusion 
of misunderstandings. When my uncle realized the situa- 



1 82 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



tion he sought for some way to put an end to it. The 
chance of doing so came to him as he was out walking. 
Suddenly, as he turned a corner, he encountered Robertson. 
In a moment there flashed upon him a happy thought. 
He went up to Robertson and, shaking hands, he said, 
" Robertson, shall you and I agree that Lot's wife was 
a very foolish woman ? " For a few seconds Robertson 
looked bewildered, then, as the significance of the question 
broke upon his mind, his face broke into smiles as he said, 
" Certainly." From that time forward there was no looking 
back, no brooding over insane fragments of gossip, and the 
friendliness of their personal relations was unbroken. 

These things, of course, belong to what we may call 
ancient history. It must be nearly seventy years since 
Robertson left Cheltenham. It is impossible, I should 
think, to test the accuracy of every event or incident which 
marked Robertson's life at Cheltenham ; but it seems only 
right to record anything which sheds a kindly light upon a 
page which has been, perhaps, looked upon as one of almost 
unrelieved blackness. 

The regard and even affection which Robertson felt 
towards Mr. Boyd is expressed with clearness and perfect 
frankness in the following letter — 

9 Montpelier Terrace, 
Brighton, 

January \^th, 1849. 

My dearest Miss Boyd, 

1 will enter at once upon the subject of your 
questions, without adverting to the other parts of your 
kind letter. " Did I ever complain of your brother's 
unkindness ? " u Had I ever cause to complain ? " 



F. W. ROBERTSON 



i83 



I reply to the second first. 

Never from the moment I began to work at 
Christ Church till the moment I left it did your 
brother cease to act towards me in a liberal, kind, and 
Christian way. Never can I be sufficiently grateful 
for his repeated acts of considerate solicitude. Except 
Charles Jackson, I do not know any man from whom 
I should have received so many. And you have my 
free permission to say to any one, as emphatically as I can 
express it, that I do not believe it would be possible to 
find any parish in England where the relations of an 
Incumbent towards a curate were more faultlessly sus- 
tained. But to say this is only half the truth. They 
were not only faultlessly, but affectionately sustained. 
I am not now giving vent to feeling, but answering 
your question in a businesslike way. 

Perhaps, however, from the significant way in 
which your second question, " Did you ever com- 
plain," etc., is put, I ought to go a little deeper into 
the matter before I answer it. 

What I have already said would seem to make a 
reply to this superfluous, and if it were not that your 
anxious tone seems to imply that some real expression 
or other of mine has been repeated, or exaggerated, or 
distorted, I should answer at once <c Never." And I do 
answer, I recollect nothing which could have been so 
understood. But a negative extending over six years 
back is hard to make, as sentences often pass the lips 
on the impulse of the moment which are forgotten in 
an hour, unless treasured up by some benevolent peace- 
maker. I must, therefore, with pain, advert to another 
part of the matter. 

I once told your brother frankly and openly that 



i8 4 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



(justly or unjustly so far as my expectations were 
concerned) I had been disappointed during the latter 
portion of my stay in Cheltenham by the cooling of 
his manner towards me ; that I had given him a very 
ardent attachment, and that for many months he had 
exhibited a growing coldness — that, of course, I had no 
right to claim friendship in return for friendship, but 
that it had galled me much to go on as we had been 
doing lately, that nothing but the feeling of his kind- 
ness, which had been once so hearty, could have kept 
me in a disagreeable post so long — that when that 
heartiness ceased, the disagreeable character of the 
position became intolerable — that I had not a single act 
of omission to complain of, but that I had missed that 
which gives the flavour to acts, and that the point 
which turned the scale at last in the decision of giving 
up was this. 

We had a long explanation ; and your brother 
mentioned several circumstances which had insensibly 
led to all this. 

These feelings indisputably were on my mind — I 
expressed them to your brother. I do not remember 
that I hinted them to any one else — except to one 
person, and if I did in that case, it was, I believe, only 
vaguely. But it would be very rash to declare posi- 
tively that I never did so — for, when a thing weighs 
heavily on the mind, in particular moments it is apt to 
come out. As such a feeling certainly did exist, I will 
not^ therefore, affirm that during three or four years 
last past no sentence has ever escaped my lips upon the 
subject — especially as you refuse to give me the name 
of the person to whom it is alleged to have been said, 
and do not even tell me what was said or affirmed to 



F. W. ROBERTSON 



185 



have been said. But this I can say, that my memory 
is a perfect blank upon the subject ; though I assume 
that there must have been some expression of dis- 
appointment of mine on which all this is grafted. I 
do not know that I ought to have given an answer 
at all unless your informant had been willing to give 
his name. But I am far more anxious to satisfy you 
than to insist upon the strict justice of the matter. 
If it be a man who has told this story, and if it be by 
his own wish that his name is concealed, you may con- 
vey to him my opinion that he is a coward — if it be a 
lady, you may tell her what I should have thought had 
it been a gentleman. 

My reply, therefore, on the whole is this. Your 
brother's active kindness to me was uniform ; beyond 
what I received ; substantial, real, true, and except for 
a few unfortunate occurrences in which I believe mis- 
understanding was the cause of all, most affectionate. 
In the reciprocation of warmth I was disappointed, 
latterly, perhaps unfairly and over sensitively and 
exorbitantly. I told him himself that I was dis- 
appointed, I do not know that I told any other person 
so. But I will not be positive in so very wide and 
vague an assertion. The feeling was within ; it may 
have got out. But I am not aware that it did. I 
think, however, I may be pretty positive that I never 
said the words which have been repeated, whatever 
those are. 

But it is exceedingly painful to go on in this way, 
qualifying denials in the dark, and as you may not tell 
me any more, I feel that what I have said now will 
amount to a presumptive proof that the story you 
allude to is correct. 



1 86 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



Blessed are the peacemakers ; and accursed are 
the mischief makers. I would stake a great deal on 
the conviction that your informant is a '"pious person," 
which is a compendious equivalent for busybody, 
mischief maker, slanderer and hypocrite — now, as 
1849 years ago. 

Of this letter you may make whatever use you 
like. Not a sentence of it is private. ' 

Ever, in unchanged friendship, 

Most affectionately yours, 

(Signed) Fred. W. R. 

The time came — it was bound to come — when the strain 
and uncongeniality of Cheltenham life was too much for 
Robertson. The spirit of petty gossip, the hopeless inability 
of ossified orthodoxy to understand ethical enthusiasm, the 
need for more leisure for study, the craving for an atmo- 
sphere of intellectual comradeship, made a change imperative ; 
but when the parting came there was a feeling of regret on 
Robertson's part. The following letter shows clearly how 
kindly and affectionate were the relations between him and 
Mr. Boyd, and all under his roof. 

My dear Miss Boyd, 

I feel it due to your great kindness to tell 
you myself and not let it come through a third person, 
that I have to-day given up the curacy of Christ 
Church. It is not necessary to go into all the reasons. 
It is partly in compliance with medical advice, and 
partly from a feeling of unfitness for ministerial work 
which becomes day by day more depressing. Possibly 
I may not take duty again, but this is a thing for after 
consideration. 



F.* W. ROBERTSON 187 



I should utterly mistake your warm and friendly 
heart if I did not feel sure that this will be a matter of 
sufficient interest to you to excuse my writing. 1 was 
much touched by your kindness last week, and shall 
not easily forget it. Your sisters and yourself have 
treated me like a brother, and you will forgive me if 1 
say that 1 feel all a brother's regard and warmth of 
affection for you. I do not attempt to express all I 
feel in this parting from you and your brother. 1 am 
not happy. 

Believe me, 

Most sincerely yours, 

Frederick W. Robertson. 

- Rodney House, 
Friday. 

In my uncle's view Robertson needed mental repose ; he 
suggested that he should close his books for a time, and 
take a holiday, and, unburdened by anxious thought, give 
himself the opportunity of entire rest. There may have 
been wisdom in the suggestion ; but it was a course which 
was impossible, I should think, to a man of Robertson's 
temperament. Among the clergy there are some men who 
are like lawyers : they speak to their brief, and they can 
handle the case committed to them with effective force. 
Such men know little of the mental struggle which is the 
portion of those who cannot accept a brief till they have 
satisfied themselves that it is drawn in harmony with the 
facts. As long as these different classes of mind exist, 
there may be friendliness, but there can hardly be perfect 
intellectual sympathy between them. The difference of 
temperament does not imply lack of mental honesty on 



1 88 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



the part of either ; it only means that to one the ministry is 
the continuous opportunity of presenting an aspect of truth 
which has become a conviction ; to the other the ministry is 
the perpetual duty of following truth through the various 
aspects it assumes, as knowledge grows, and experience 
shows fresh disclosures of life. To the one the message is 
a fixed and divinely authenticated message ; to the other 
the message is never felt to be divine till it can be translated 
into some human form. 

We have had both classes of teachers in the Church of 
Christ, and both have served to enrich the thought and 
revive the spirit of faith. 

There is no doubt to which of these classes Robertson 
belonged, and the freshness of his message to men was due 
to the scrupulous intellectual honesty of his thought, and to 
the attractive human form in which he could present truth. 

I have mentioned the letters which he wrote to my aunt. 
They prove that he regarded her as one who had both the 
capacity and the wish to sympathize with his struggles to 
reach a satisfactory outlook upon his life of ministry. He 
gives expression in one of his letters to the happy freedom 
which he feels when he has exchanged the climate of 
Cheltenham for that of Oxford. In this letter he rejoices 
to find that his admiration of Tennyson as a poet is shared 
by many thoughtful men at Oxford. The implication is 
clear enough. I can well believe that the Cheltenham of 
1847 cou ld not receive Tennyson. I can recall a con- 
versation which I heard twenty years later in a Blackheath 
drawing-room, which probably illustrates the Cheltenham 
standpoint. Some adventurous person asked the company 



F. W. ROBERTSON 



" Who was the greatest living poet ? " A man recognized 
as a leader of evangelical thought took upon him, with 
amazing promptness, to answer the question. " Oh, Bonar, 
no doubt." I gasped ; I was silent ; there are some occasions 
in which amazement makes speech impossible. Could there 
be a more cruel thing to an excellent, pious, hymn writer like 
Horatius Bonar, than thus to thrust him among the gods ? 
It was one of those fatuous utterances which do much to 
alienate thinking men from a form of religion which could 
produce such undiscriminating and ignorant judgments. 

This reminiscence of mine may serve as an introduction 
to Robertson's letter in which the verdicts upon Tennyson 
are referred to. It illustrates, I think, and helps to explain, 
the joy which Robertson felt in breathing the air of Oxford. 
There he was no longer living in an exhausted receiver. 
The fresh currents of free and impartial thought were 
circulating in the colleges and common rooms ; ecclesi- 
asticism had not then begun to strangle common sense 
and honest judgment. Ideas were abroad, and organization 
had not yet had power to destroy them. 

4, Quien Street, 
Oxford, 

June 29. 

A letter is such a joy to me here in banishment ! 
I found yours lying at my door this morning, where 
my letters are always put, reclining against a taper 
earthen vessel, containing water, a hint taken from 
Punch's surmise of the 1 lb. loaf of bread standing 
beside Lord John Russell's door at Windsor. I took 
it up in a kind of delirium, or trance of ecstasy — put 
it on the table, and endeavoured to go through the 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



usual rehearsal of my previous day's reading with 
which I occupy that morning half-hour. But, alas ! 
my toilette lucubrations for to-day were not worth 
much, broken and disconnected. Glimpses of expected 
pleasure — recollections — visions in the shape of a female 
form, flitted and glittered and danced before me in the 
intervals of Gerando's French philosophy and the 
dark depths of Schleiermacher's metaphysics — like pale 
threads of starlight that you see with long intervals 
of black, in a long line up to the horizon when the 
sea is agitated and nervous. 

And now to touch on points in your letter. I 
have not heard of the appointment of my successor, 
and only a week ago the Bishop told me he had found 
no one. He asked Mr. Tucker of Madras, but he 
unfortunately had just accepted a church. However, 
the report may be true. People here are very anxious, 
almost feverishly so about it, for the Tractarian reign 
in this parish had brought the congregation down to 
twenty-five or thirty. Taking it all in all, though, 
there are many drawbacks ; if only the stipend were 
a little better, I should prefer remaining here to going 
to Brighton. There is much that is very encouraging, 
and I am free and happy. My congregation is chiefly 
composed of tradespeople, but unfortunately a large 
proportion of it is from other parishes. In term time 
gownsmen were beginning to come, and I would rather, 
far, far rather, work among such than among the 
pampered theologians of the upper classes, whose 
profound ignorance makes them obstinate in their 
own narrow, silly orthodoxy. Rather a great deal 
would I deal with the honest radicalism of my chief 
parishioners here, who stand firmly against the foolish 



F. W. ROBERTSON 



191 



assumptions and the arrogance of Oxford clerical high 
churchism, but are ready to give a manly, independent 
and candid attention to anyone who will stand on 
generous though firm ground, than with those petrifac- 
tions of a fashionable watering-place whose liberality is 
chiefly liberality of certain flames to which they consign 
those who differ from them. I do not dispute their 
title to deal with those flames. Very likely they have 
a clear right of property therein, which at all events I 
will not attempt to rob them of. But of the two, the 
Romanist who presents his antagonist with the flames 
of this world and the Protestant who talks of private 
judgment, and promises everyone who contravenes his 
judgment a liberal supply of the flames of the next — 
(witness Baptist Noel !), I can only say the latter is 
the worse Papist and Apostle of infallibility of the two. 
It is not a beautiful spectacle in the eyes of Him Who 
is Love. The Romanist excommunicates the Protes- 
tant. The Protestant reciprocates, from his Coward's 
Castle in the pulpit and platform, curses loud and deep 
amidst the clatter of parasols and the applauses of 
ignorance, against the Romanist. The Tractarian 
sneers at the Evangelical from the University pulpit : 
in acknowledgment of which politeness the Evangelical 
in his accredited formula of oath, not swearing — oh, 

no ! — sends the Tractarian to Dr. Hook, whom 

I heard a few days ago, says publicly that every man 
who does not hold baptismal regeneration in the 
Church of England is as much a rogue as he who 
does hold the doctrine of Transubstantiation : and a 
few weeks ago I heard himself abused as a Papist 
in dense darkness. Mr. Ward cuts up Luther, and 
Archdeacon Hare excoriates Mr. Ward with flagella- 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



tion and vituperation. The Unitarian looks on and 
says, this is Christian unity ! till, like the celebrated 
exclamation of Tarn o'Shanter which brought the whole 
legion of witches on his luckless mare, the Unitarian 
receives a significant proof that these combatants can 
upon occasion realise unity, by the peal of deafening 
and combined curses with which they altogether salute 
the intruder upon the amiable meeting. You look 
into his controversies, and you find he has not been 
much behind them. For curses he has returned con- 
tempt. What a striking historical picture all this would 
make, especially if over it there were written Prize 
Picture, composed on a subject as proposed by the 
R.A., " A new Commandment give I unto you, that ye 
love one another ! " 

I did not attend any of the Lectures, a very 
Gothic proceeding on my part, I have no doubt you 
will think ; but the truth is I wanted to avoid all 
excitement and keep my mind and heart calm for 
work. I have three sermons a week, besides Con- 
firmation classes and instruction in the school, which 
occupy six hours every week : besides visiting the sick. 
And I could not do this thoroughly if I suffered myself 
to get into the exciting worlds of though which are 
being presented now and which so dissipate the mind, 
as you run about from section to section. I was and 
even still am much tempted to go, for I hear on every 
side accounts of intense interest recited. Yesterday 
Prince Albert came amidst the ringing of bells, and a 
salute of twenty-one guns which the townspeople fired 
in his honour, but I left those who think a prince the 
real standard of human greatness to run after him. 
I would rather have seen the great and good Chevalier 



F. W. ROBERTSON 



193 



Bunsen. I know nothing grand in this world except 
adorned human nature. Goodness is grand, and genius 
in a smaller way is great, though I am no worshipper 
of talent, or Titans. But princes and rank and such 
small fry I would not turn out of my way to see. 
Manhood and the mysteries of the human heart I can 
find without a title : and this world holds little now 
for me that is marvellous, except that. Sir Peregrine 
Maitland received an honorary degree in full uniform 
at the commemoration — a man disgraced for doing his 
duty in India. I gave him a deep and hearty cheer, 
as the fine old fellow stood meekly and unmoved and 
simple amidst his thunders of applause. And when 
I saw him afterwards in a great meeting shrinking into 
a corner and sitting listening like a child, I felt that, 
after all, the despised life of Christ is the only grand 
thing this earth has seen (except that which resembles 
it). Jesus Christ and the crucified — by which our 
Evangelicals understand that they are to preach only 
or chiefly the crucifixion of Christ — robbing the whole 
passage of its sublime significance, as if the Apostle 
did not mean to say this, that he gloried in a Saviour 
humbled : shamed, not applauded : crucified, not en- 
throned : that this is the true majesty of man : that 
he would not do as the Roman Catholic missionaries 
did, represent Jesus as a victorious conqueror, but as a 
martyr for the truth. He did not say he would preach 
chiefly the Crucifixion of Christ : but that whatever he 
said of Christ should not obscure the fact of his 
humiliation. He would preach Christ : but that 
Christ a humbled one. He would speak of goodness, 
nobleness, purity, heroism : but never should it be 
forgotten in his teaching that the Divinest form of 



FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



these is Condescension. Let the world run after its 
Marquises, Dukes, Prince Alberts, and lionise them in 
its way. The homage of his heart should be prostrated 
before love and manhood even in disgrace ; the love 
which sacrifices itself for others — the manhood which 
is as dazzling to the heart in the cottage of a labourer 
as in the state carriage of a noble. 

I am happier and more at rest in heart here 
than I have been for a long, long time. Except this 
week I have scarcely spoken to any one except my 
parishioners and bookseller. I am alone. But I have 
plenty of work — elasticity of mind to do it all without 
any effort greater than what is a healthful exercise of 
mind — know that when I preach, I preach not to be 
judged, but to say out what is in me, one heart impart- 
ing its earnest convictions to other hearts, and not 
troubled with reflex work upon itself, self-conscious- 
ness, self-measurement, self-criticism, but revelling in 
entire self-forgetfulness. Even when University men 
of high talent are present, I have been at ease— preached 
not for them, but for my tradespeople — knowing that 
they, as men of talent always do, will make allowances. 
And oh, what a lesson has it read me and might read 
Cheltenham of humility ! I have talked with and 
preached before brilliant and gifted men, who differed 
from me, who were intellectually as far above me " as 
the sunlight to the moonlight," &c, with more con- 
fidence, and received from them more respect, more 
unwillingness to differ — more distrustfulness of their 
own judgment and reverence for another's, than during 
five years I ever met from the beings in Cheltenham 
who read the Record, Charlotte Elisabeth, and 
D'Aubigne on the Reformation ! 



F. W. ROBERTSON 



*95 



I had nearly forgotten to tell you that Tennyson 
is deeply admired here by all the brilliant men. 
Stanley, our first genius, rates him highly. Hannah, 
who has guided nearly all the first and double first- 
class men for the last three years to honors, told me 
he considers his poetical and psychological powers 
more varied than any poet he knows. And the 
Dread, a choice selection of the most brilliant among 
the rising men, have pronounced him to be the first 
poet of the day. So you see I have some to keep me 
company in my judgment. And at all events he is 
above ridicule. Pray inform Miss Dalzell of all this. 
One of our first professors raves about him. 

I have left myself no room with all this chatting 
strain to tell you how angry I am with you for sup- 
posing that 1 was annoyed by not receiving a letter 
from you. One letter is precious enough to amply 
repay and outweigh ten of mine, even though you 
write so large and say so little, and send such dis- 
appointing sheets containing three words in a line and 
four lines in a page. 

Pray put my address in full next time you write. 
My name is no longer in the Oxford Calendar, and as 
I had just come and was not known as one of the 
parochial clergy, the post office could not tell at what 
college they should apply. Brasenose would have 
found me. And now, dearest Miss Boyd, farewell ! 

Ever most sincerely and affectionately yours, 

{Signed) Frederick W. Robertson. 

His life at Oxford was a happy interlude, and its in- 
fluence helped in preparation for his work at Brighton. 
Whatever may have been his own feelings respecting the 



196 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



relative comfort of work in Oxford or in Brighton, it will be 
with Brighton that Robertson's name will be always associ- 
ated. He was Robertson of Brighton to the men of his own 
day, and he is Robertson of Brighton to the thousands who 
to-day rejoice in the inspiration which they owe to him. 

The spirit in which he contemplated the change from 
Oxford to Brighton is made clear in the following letter, 
which possesses the added interest of the language in which 
he speaks of the then Bishop of Oxford, who in his turn 
was a man, as we know, viewed with suspicion by a certain 
section of Churchpeople. 

This morning I received a letter from the Bishop 
of Oxford, informing me that he has appointed a tem- 
porary successor to St. Ebbes, and that I am therefore 
free after next Sunday. So my work is nearly done, 
over which I cannot rejoice, for it has been very de- 
lightful : regular, hard, and not unblest. I am quite 
certain that I could be of service here — both in the 
town and the university — more so, perhaps, than any- 
where in England. However, it is very plainly not 
my appointed post. If Brighton resemble Cheltenham 
I shall soon be at Home, in the still Country. My 
spontaneous thoughts more and more shape them- 
selves now into longings for rest — Rest in God — Rest 
in the place where mysteries are solved and heartaches 
cured. Five years of Cheltenham have been to me 
as ten elsewhere. I am not the man I was — temper, 
mind, character, all are deteriorated and degraded. 
Here, once more in life, the ghost of former thoughts 
has hovered round me, strength of will, high aims, 
and inward harmony. One last, beautiful dream — 



F. W. ROBERTSON 



such as you only get when your working hours alone 
are spent with men (and those hard and severe), the 
hours of relaxation in quiet, alone, and with God. 
However, it is drawing to an end — and now hurrah ! 
for bustle, glare, restlessness — and the drag of existence, 
that will drag on ! 

The Judge has just passed my window to the 
assizes with music, shouts and holiday. What are 
people shouting for ? Good fun ! He is gone to 
make some wretched hearts more wretched still. What 
a contrast their feelings must present to the sounds 
outside ! Surely the only sensation which sinners have 
a right to feel towards sinners is a sensation of pity. 
The wretched, suffering, tempted poor — how little 
they get of anything beyond platform and pulpit 
sympathy. 

The Bishop of Oxford preached here a few Sun- 
days ago, before all the savants and great men. They 
crowded to the church, which was filled to suffocation 
— a sea of men, the ladies occupying a very small pro- 
portion of the space. It is said to have been very 
brilliant. But he is wearing himself out, burning away 
fast. And as usual with all men who will not be 
partisans, he is suspected, reviled and charged with the 
meanest motives on every side, except by those who 
know him intimately and well, and they admire and love 
him in a way I have seldom known. His Master had 
exactly the same life of it. 1 do admire the Bishop of 
Oxford — and admire him the more for the hearty, 
enthusiastic admiration that he can feel for others' 
excellence. It quite did my heart good in a conversa- 
tion with him the other day to hear the warmth of his 
generous praise of one or two men to whose writings 



198 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



he acknowledges a great debt. For seven years now 
I have felt that he was a true man, and defended 
him. Now I feel more sure of it than ever. And 
now, dearest Miss Boyd, farewell. 

Ever most affect. 
Yours, 

(%/.) F. W. R. 

It is interesting to notice the hesitations which men 
show in life. Hesitations are of different * kinds, but once 
we can classify the hesitation which a man has displayed in 
any crisis we have a key to his character — or, at any rate, we 
feel that we know him better. Fredk. Robertson was a 
man whose powers grew with sympathy and would have 
withered under indifference. He was sensitive to the 
influence and, above all, to the sympathetic support of 
others. His was one of those natures which would reach 
its best under what we may call a mothering influence : 
under it his energies quickened, his thoughts grew in 
amplitude and clearness, and in the outpouring of the ideas 
which sympathy released, he felt his way to clearer con- 
ceptions of right and truth. Such a nature suffers from a 
continual and painful self-distrust : it needs comradeship 
that it may talk out its thoughts : it does not surrender its 
own right of decision, but it yearns for the support and 
guidance which the interchange of ideas can give. The 
letters written to my aunt convince me of this aspect of his 
character. He found in her one to whom he could speak 
freely, letting his thoughts run on, groping their way to 
foundation principles, and striving to reach that aspect of 
truth which scorns " the falsehood of extremes." Truth 



F. W. ROBERTSON 



199 



was to him not mere correctness of thinking, but sincerity 
of feeling and integrity in action. The following extract 
from a letter written from Oxford shows us the worthy and 
honest hesitation which he felt in choosing the place of his 
future career. Is it to be Oxford or Brighton ? was the 
question of the moment. He distrusts himself : he wishes 
that the question shall be decided for him. 

The reader will perhaps recall Mr. Frederic Harrison's 
view that, at Brighton, Robertson's appearance, voice and 
manner were the very ideal of a fashionable preacher. How 
far Robertson himself was from desiring such a reputation 
the following extract will show — 

" I must tell you, however, that nothing yet is de- 
cided respecting my future location. I have referred 
the whole decision to the Bishop of Oxford. Having 
agreed to take his opinion as God's guidance, I was 
tempted at first to think that though his release left me 
free in honour to accept which I chose, yet it would be 
playing fast and loose with God, as Balaam did, to de- 
sire a second reply to a ruled decision. But on second 
thoughts, I perceived a great difference in the cases. 
New circumstances, unsought and unforeseen by me, 
have arisen : difficulties on the one hand in the failure 
as to the curate and the house, and a way unexpectedly 
opened on the other by the committee's application to 
the Bishop. I am therefore bound to inquire which is 
God's guidance. I was willing to take Oxford when 
it seemed my duty. Am I equally willing to follow a 
new path, if distinctly pointed out ? There is a re- 
markable similarity in the two sets of circumstances. 
Both Oxford and Brighton were refused by me once, 



2oo FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



and both a second time pressed upon me. I dread 
Brighton because of its temptations — to vanity, to 
lightness, to live for popularity instead of God, to 
be satisfied with superficial instead of deep religion — 
to sink, with all high and pure aims, into a mere popu- 
lar preacher at last, i.e. if I could ever be popular. 
But I have put the matter out of my own hands and 
asked the Bishop to decide — not what is best for me, 
but what I ought to do. So at least I act honestly." 

The Bishop, as we know, decided for Brighton, and 
Brighton had the six years of devoted ministry. I feel that 
I must add one letter : it differs from the rest in that it deals 
with religious matters from an experimental point of view. 
His clear and sane readiness of thought does not desert him, 
but with it is allied the happy simplicity of religious faith. 

My dear Miss Boyd, 

I return your list with a few marked, which 
I believe would suit your purpose. I have added two 
or three more, which are valuable. It seems to me 
that biography, where there is not sentimentalism but 
reality, is the most likely way to win an appreciation of 
what is peculiar in Christ's religion from those who 
know it not in power. 1 say likely, because of course 
the success depends on God's sovereign will, and all 
our best contrived expedients may be baffled, while the 
result is brought about by means the most apparently 
improbable. But we are insensibly moulded after that 
which we admire, so that we even catch the tones and 
peculiarities of those whose character is venerated for 
quite other qualities. It seems just on this principle 
that our Lord's pattern works upon the heart when 



F. W. ROBERTSON 



20I 



it is truly admired and studied, so that we, first 
" beholding," are then " changed into the same image — 
from glory to glory." 

But after all, the selection must vary with the 
character of mind for which it is intended, and our best 
plans may err. Your surest effort will be unfainting 
prayer for the friend in whom you desire a change 
which nothing of human contrivance can effect, and 
which is supernatural. If your desires are crowned by 
God, there will be a purity in the joy, which no other 
feeling on earth can give. I pray that it may not be in 
vain. 

Yours ever sincerely, 

(Sgd.) Frederick W. Robertson. 
Saturday Evening. 

The following lines are probably new to the world ; 
they breathe the spirit of pure and happy friendship, and 
they express the grateful emotions of a man who found the 
sustaining strength of womanly sympathy, in days which 
were darkened by doubt and trouble, with the painful 
consciousness of weakness. They show us something of 
the struggles of spirit by which he was tried, in days when 
there was probably fighting without, and undoubtedly fears 
within. 

PARTING LINES TO MISS F. B. 

We may meet not beyond to-morrow, 

But one word before we part ; 
It must be a tone of sorrow, 

But its music is vent to the heart. 

There are thoughts too free and glowing 

For the trammels of common speech ; 
There's a tide in the heart's depth flowing, 

Too high but for song to reach. 



202 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



Thou hast known me in days that are over, 

As weak as the spent sea wave ; 
And hast seen me unmanned discover 

What were shame to the firm and brave. 

Yet through all thine unaltered spirit 

For weakness itself could mourn, 
And was blind to each fault which could merit 

One curl on the mouth of scorn. 

Farewell to the lip that trembled 

For me with a sister's fear ! 
Farewell to the eye that dissembled 

The start of a woman's tear. 

The hour of that weakness is over, 
Though lost be the earnest of life ; 

And if need be, Resolve can cover 
Each swell of remaining strife. 

Oh ! strange are the shapes which Feeling 

Can assume to disguise its throe, 
When sarcastic calm is concealing 

The quiver of heart below. 

There's a laughter whose light animation 
Is the knell of a hope that's gone — 

The bitter and proud isolation 

Of a soul that would suffer alone. 

Love itself may be frozen— yet never 
Shall my heart be congealed to thee ; 

To the spell of thy kind tones ever 
My spirit flows clear and free. 

On the sward by the mouldering ruin, 

Still green is the fairy ring ; 
And thy name, in life's cold undoing, 

Will be one last spot of Spring. 



F. W. ROBERTSON 



203 



Farewell to thee, sister dearest ! 

There were friends in the bright years past ; 
But to her who in sadness was nearest, 

One blessing from me at last. 

F. W. R. 

January 1847. 

Six years later he died. Six years of work at Trinity 
Church, Brighton, closed without his friends or his congre- 
gation realizing how wide and lasting his influence was 
destined to be. He died on August 15, 1853, exactly six 
years from the day on which he commenced his work at 
Brighton. " My friends," he said, after two hours of 
agony, " My friends, I must die. Let God do His work." 
They were his last words spoken, but the work did not 
end with his death. His words went out far and wide, and 
God worked by him long after his voice was silent. 



J. HENRY SHORTHOUSE 



Among happy memories few are brighter than the 
recollection of those acquaintances which ripened into 
friendship. Among these I must reckon the warm attach- 
ment which sprang up between Mr. and Mrs. Shorthouse 
and ourselves. I met Mr. and Mrs. Shorthouse first at the 
house of a parishioner of mine, Colonel RatclifF, when 1 was 
at Lancaster Gate. In one of those unaccountable ways we 
seemed to find each other, and a correspondence, happily 
broken by interchanged visits, gave continuity and strength 
to our friendship. " Friendship," said the late Professor 
Jowett, " should be carefully fostered." In this case it was ; 
and letters and visits nursed the growing affection between 
us. It began very simply. 

There was a paper written by Mr. Shorthouse which was, 
I think, unique, in the pages of the Nineteenth Century. It 
covered, if I recollect right, a single page of the magazine. 
It was a parable drawn from a game of whist. The cards 
were dealt, and as they fell without any sign of order or 
sequence on the table, and suits were mixed up with one 
another, the cards, noting the haphazard fashion of their ex- 
perience said, " We are the sport of chance." The cards 
were gathered up and the game began, and the suits were 
kept to themselves ; spades followed spades, hearts followed 

hearts, and so on, with such regularity that the cards now 

204 



J. HENRY SHORTHOUSE 205 



declared that they were under the rule of inevitable and 
inexorable law ; they said, " We are the victims of fate." 
Then somebody played a trump, and the cards saw that 
thought and will entered into their destiny, and they said 
" Our lot is ordered by intelligence.' ' 5 
As I wished to recover the paper I wrote to ask the 
date of its publication. This will explain the allusion in the 
commencement of the following letter. In the same letter 
I was able to tell him, in confidence, that Queen Victoria 
appreciated his writings. My letter brought the following 
reply — 

Lansdowne, Edgbaston, 

December 12, 1883. 

My dear Canon Boyd Carpenter, 

The little " apologue " you refer to appeared 
in the Nineteenth Century for July 1882. I seem to 
have only one copy, and that a poor one, or 1 would 
send you one at once. ' I have no doubt, however, 
that they are to be procured. 

I have always regretted that I saw so little of you 
when we met at Colonel RatclifFs ; my wife was more 
fortunate, as she sat by you at dinner, and in conse- 
quence greatly enjoyed the evening. 

I am naturally much gratified by what you tell me 
in confidence. I had the honour of being allowed to 
present a copy of John Inglesant to H.R.H. the Duke 
of Albany, and also, at the request of the Librarian, to 
send a copy to the Queen, but yours is the first inti- 
mation I have received of personal interest in the book. 
With kindest regards from my wife, 

I am, Yours very sincerely, 

(Signed) J. Henry Shorthouse. 
The Rev. Canon Boyd Carpenter. 



2o6 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



In my reply I asked what he wished me to do with 
some verses he had sent, and as in the following reply he 
put them at my disposal, I feel that I may now give 
them to my readers. 

Landsdowne, 

edgb aston, 

April 9, 1884. 

My dear Canon Boyd Carpenter, 

Many thanks for your kind letter ; we were 
quite ashamed at sending you so many books, and 
very glad that you are not overwhelmed. 

The verses on the Prince belong to you> I do not 
mean to make any further use of them. I could not 
let the week, which began so happily for us in Windsor 
Castle, pass without expressing in some feeble way my 
sympathy in the sorrow and compassion which the 
nation is feeling ; and the obvious adaptation of the 
Dean's (Stanley) poem struck me as very forcible, 
which no doubt others will make use of. 

If you think that the Princess would like to see 
the lines, make what use of them you will. I am not 
sure whether the first three verses would not end 
better — 

" He travelled Here." 

With kindest regards to Mrs. Carpenter, 
From 

Yours very sincerely, 

(Signed) J. Henry Shorthouse. 

The verses were given a title derived from a phrase 
employed by Dean Stanley. They were called — 



J. HENRY SHORTHOUSE 



207 



"THE UNTRAVELLED TRAVELLER" 

Through Science* mazy lore, 
Through Art's environment, 
Through Music's blandishment, 

He travelled once. 

Through Love, our Human Love, 
Through Hearts of Peasant-born, 
Through courtly life and purified, 

He travelled once. 

For good of suffering men, 
For love of Human kind, 
In travailing for Truth, 

He travelled once. 

And now beyond the stars, 

Beyond the passion of our trembling love, 

Beyond our groping quest 

He travels still. 

The Eternal Spaces opening, 
The Love, not ours encompassing, 
Travail, not ours inspiriting, 

He travels on ! 

The Iris born of Love, 

The Halo round the face of Love, 

The welcome of the Man of Love, 

The Throne of God ! 

J. H. S. 

$th Sunday in Lent, 1884. 

One little work byl Mr. Shorthouse, Little Schoolmaster 
Mark, interested me in a special way, and my interest 
was stimulated by a letter from Mr. Shorthouse which 
challenged my ingenuity. 

This letter I regard as very characteristic. Mr. Short- 
house had a very strong feeling that the stories which he 



2o8 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



wrote had been given him : he was but the instrument of 
transmitting them to the world, and though they were his 
work, their full or truest significance might be as much 
a mystery to him as to the reader. The questions he 
raises have their origin in this conviction of his, that the 
products of his pen were not the results of previous 
imagination on his part, but were visions with messages 
which it was for him as well as others to seek to under- 
stand. As in this letter he, as it were, challenged me to 
suggest a solution of the problem, I gave the matter some 
thought, and I ventured to write a second part or continu- 
ation of the tale. There might have been an impertinence 
in doing this, but 1 know, from my personal and friendly 
acquaintance with him, that he would welcome rather than 
resent such a sign of interest in his work. 

The letter was as follows — 

Lansdowne, 
Edgbaston, 

December 15, 1883. 

My dear Canon Boyd Carpenter, 

Many thanks for your letter. At the risk 
of troubling you I should like to tell you that Mr. 
Ainger, the Reader of the Temple, whom I have 
the great pleasure of knowing, preached on Little 
Mark some Sundays ago, and sent me a very in- 
teresting (as all he writes must be) extract from his 
sermon. He takes the moral of the story to be, that 
if Religion is made a plaything or an art instead of an 
absorbing passion, it will die. 

I would rather say that the story is that of one 
of many failures to reconcile the artistic with the 



J. HENRY SHORTHOUSE 



spiritual aspect of life. If I knew the solution to 
this problem I would gladly write a second part. Can 
you help me to it ? Is religion always to be a stranger 
and alien from life's Feast ? 

The Prince was not a strong man, but I have 
great sympathy with him. Was it not the Princess 
Isoline's disappointment in her extreme phase of religious 
life that killed Mark ? 

Yours very sincerely, 

{Signed) J. Henry Shorthouse. 

In reply to this challenge to make suggestions, I wrote 
my solution. This was the postscript which I wrote. 
I do not know that I should, at the present day, agree 
with the line of thought I then adopted. I place it here 
as an incident in our correspondence. 

I called it "An Afterthought." I submitted it, with 
a thousand apologies, to the author of Little Schoolmaster 
Mark, and I prefaced it with the lines — 

No cunning hand is mine to touch the lyre, 
Yet let my voice be heard within thy choir. 

But Little Schoolmaster Mark was not dead. 
He only lay in a trance, motionless and still as death ; 
so that all around him thought that he was dead. 
He looked very fair as he lay there. A calm and 
sweet expression, with a touch of happy wonder in 
it, was seen upon his face. One after another came 
and looked upon him, where he had been laid out 
in the little temple-like building which adjoined the 
house, and where once worship was carried on. It 
chanced that the Princess [wife] and the Princess 



210 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

Isoline found themselves face to ^face one day with 
Little Mark's body lying between. A flush of half 
pity and half shame was gathering in the Princess's 
face when she looked up and met the Princess Iso- 
line's countenance, which was wet with tears. For an 
instant a touch of defiance seemed to tremble on 
the Princess's lips, and then she drooped her head 
and her eyes fell on the calm, marble angel face of 
Little Mark ; and she said gently, " He was very 
good." And Princess Isoline whispered in choked 
accents, "And so beautiful." "Beautiful and good," 
said a voice near at hand. The two ladies looked 
up ; the Prince was there. " The things fair are 
sweet : sweeter than I knew," said the Princess Iso- 
line. "The things good are sweeter still, my sister," 
said the Prince's wife. "Both good and beautiful 
met in Mark," said the Prince ; " and only in him 
of all men I ever knew," he added, as if speaking to 
himself. " I wonder why," said both the ladies, 
speaking at once. 

But Little Mark's mind was far away. When the 
sudden fall came he lost all thought for a time, and 
then a deep and exquisite repose was his. He seemed 
to be in an air so light that he hardly touched the 
ground ; and so pleasant — neither too hot nor too 
cold — that a dear delight of being took possession 
of him. He seemed to be in a garden-house, where 
birds were flying and flowers were blooming. On a 
branch of a tree he saw two birds : one was of most 
brilliant plumage, dazzling as a bird of Paradise, the 
other was a dull and dowdy-featured bird. It began 
to sing ; its voice was sweet and clear as an angel's, 



J. HENRY SHORTHOUSE 211 

but the brilliant-featured bird only uttered a harsh 
note. A sadness came over Little Mark. "The 
fair is never sweet, nor the sweet fair — not even in 
heaven," he said, for Mark thought he was in heaven. 
And then a quiet, patient feeling came upon him, and 
he said to himself, " I must wait." He watched ; 
and presently a servant came in and spread some food 
upon the ground. The birds flew down and devoured 
it ; and Little Mark, looking at the pearly white food, 
said, " It is manna." But the birds soon had eaten 
it all up" ; and then a wonder took place. The dull- 
featured bird sang, and as she sang her plumage grew 
bright and fair ; and the splendid-winged bird looked 
on, and tried to sing. As he saw the wings and 
feathers of his companion bird grow beautiful, he 
seemed to find voice, and his croak grew into a song, 
loud and sweet. And the two birds lifted up their 
voices together and sang till the voices seemed but one, 
and they shook out their fair wings and made their 
nest together. Then Little Mark turned to the ser- 
vant and asked what food it was which made the fair 
grow sweet and the sweet grow fair. And the servant 
answered, " It is Angels' Food." 

And then the vision faded, for the trance was fast 
coming to an end ; and he heard the voice near him, 
which was saying, " I wonder why." And Little Mark, 
still dazed with his vision, and not knowing that he 
was brought back to life, or that it was the Prince 
who was speaking, answered, answering his own 
thoughts more than the question, " All because of the 
angels' food," he said. 

"What is that angels' food?" said the Prince. 
And Mark answered, still half dreaming out his own 



2i2 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



thoughts, " The only food of angels is love, for they 
feast their hearts on God, and God is Love." 

" Mark is right," said the Prince, as Mark started 
up and looked round him in surprise. " Mark is 
right ; only when the good and the beautiful are 
nurtured in love can they be wedded." "That is 
it," said Mark. " I see it now. Good is not good 
that springs not from love, nor can fair be the fair 
that grows not from love : love only is the seed from 
which alike the fruits of life and the flowers of life 
can grow." 

No more was said. The wife of the Prince and 
the sister of the Prince kissed one another, and the 
Count was banished from the court, and sweet songs 
of praise were heard in the little neglected temple. 
And Little Mark was happy. 

Lansdowne, 

Edgbaston, 
March 7, 1884. 

My dear Canon Boyd Carpenter, 

Many thanks for your kind letter and most 
kind wish to see us' at Windsor this month. I have 
read your final chapter to " Little Mark" with the 
greatest pleasure and interest. The opening is singu- 
larly like what I have written, only I think Mark is 
dead and I fear the Princess (wife) must go through 
a longer purgation. Your idea, I think, is just what 
we want — the ideal of the Greeks — xahoxayabog — the 
godlike and the beautiful in one — what we want is 
to apply it to real life. We all understand that Art 
should be religious, but it is more difficult to understand 
how Religion may be an Art. 



J. HENRY SHORTHOUSE 213 

I am not without hopes that it may gradually 
work itself out. 

As to your most kind invitation, we very seldom 
leave home in the winter, as we are neither of us at 
all strong, and are very dependent upon warmth, espe- 
cially my wife. Your offer is so very attractive that 
we can hardly deny ourselves such a pleasure. We 
should be at liberty after the 2 1 st (as we have engage- 
ments up to that day). Should you like us to spend 
Sunday with you, or would the Monday or Tuesday 
be better ? We should much enjoy a couple of days 
with Mrs. Carpenter and yourself. 

You will not let us come unless it is absolutely 
convenient to Mrs. Carpenter in every way. 

With kindest regards from my wife, 
I am, 

Yours very sincerely, 
[Signed) J. Henry Shorthouse. 

P.S. At Col. Maurice's request I have written 
an article on his father for the Nineteenth Century. 
It is a wonderful subject and a great honour, but 
rather terrible. 

I was asked to give the Annual Address to the members 
of the Midland Institute at Birmingham, and I wished 
to refresh and enlarge my acquaintance with Birmingham 
worthies, and I bethought me of the help Mr. Shorthouse 
could give me. The result was the following letter which 
I print because it possesses an interest of its own, and 
because it discloses a side of Mr. Shorthouse's mind 
which would hardly be suspected by those who delighted 
in his works — 



2i 4 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



Lansdowne, 

Edgbaston, 
Sixteenth Sunday after Trinity, 

St. Michael and All Angels, 1895. 

My dear Bishop, 

Mrs. Carpenter, at the end of her very kind 
letter says, " Can Mr. Shorthouse tell the bishop a few 
of the most important Birmingham worthies ? " I am 
not sure whether is meant past or present worthies. 
The past would take a lot of thought and writing, 
and the present would imply a very inodorous task, 
which I would rather not attempt, but a few thoughts 
occur to me which, while not mentioning names, seem 
to indicate some phases of Birmingham life which, I 
think, are not without use in the present day. 

Birmingham was a free town, not a corporation, and 
outside the " Five Mile Act" and in the days of the 
Restoration a sort of Cave of Adullam. Anyone might 
come in and set up in business, or Religion, or any- 
thing else. This accounts for the great preponderance 
of Dissent which has always obtained : although it 
is worthy of remark that the rector of St. Martin s 
(the parish church), at the Restoration, was John Ryland, 
a Cavalier parson of the best type ; a man of such "a 
character that these chief of Dissenters, together with 
the rest of the people, never spoke of him except as 
"that Holy man." 

It is a remarkable thing that this " freedom of 
the City" has continued to the present day. Scarcely 
a single man who occupies an important position was 
horn in the City. I do not think that any one of the 
Members of Parliament was born in Birmingham. / 
am not sure of Mr. Dixon. 

But what I want to arrive at is the statement of 



J. HENRY SHORTHOUSE 



215 



what seems to me to be a continuation of the best 
form of the Feudal System which, to my certain 
knowledge, after an experience on my own part of 
nearly fifty years, and on the part of my family 
of more than 150, of the manufacturers of Birming- 
ham — a close and friendly relationship between the master 
and his best workmen. This did not imply any non- 
sense of Socialism, or any interference on the part of 
the workman, but a thorough recognition of the 
relative value of the position as master and servant, 
and a firm response to the duties of responsibility on 
both sides. I am far from claiming this characteristic 
as peculiar to Birmingham ; I have no doubt that it 
existed, and still exists, in Yorkshire and other great 
manufacturing centres. I am sure that it exists in 
Birmingham at the present day : but the establishment 
of Limited Liability companies naturally tends to do 
away with this feeling, and I seem to feel that such 
a thought as this, put in your inimitable way and 
words, would not be without use in an address to 
Birmingham men in their" town hall. I remember 
when I was a boy, just in business, seeing a distin- 
guished manufacturer, a man who lived in a beautiful 
country house in a little park — there were such places 
within two or three miles of the centre of Birmingham 
fifty years ago — sitting on one side of the old-fashioned 
carved mantelpiece of his office with an old workman 
(not a manager but a foreman in his working dress) 
on the other side over a friendly cup of tea, engaged 
in important and interesting discussion on manufac- 
turing matters, and whenever a workman, old or 
young, displayed any industry or any talent, he did 
not miss his reward. I know that the same sort of 



216 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



thing is going on now ; but not, I fear, to such 
a universal extent. 

I cannot close this letter, seeing that you are to 
be guest of Mr. Chamberlain, without saying that 
I am very much impressed by the unquestionable and 
striking success of the great idea and scheme which 
he originated for the advancement of Birmingham to 
the rank of a county metropolis, and the consequent 
improvement and advantage of all its inhabitants. 
Coming as this does from a perfectly impartial source, 
from one not at all prejudiced in favour of Mr. 
Chamberlain, it may be of some value, and at any 
rate it will end my letter, as I began it, in recog- 
nition of the work of Birmingham people who were 
not born in the city. 

We shall only have a few days' holiday in 
October at Weston-Super-Mare, so must postpone 
the pleasure of a visit to Ripon to a future year. 
I am, my dear Bishop, 
Yours very affectionately and admiringly, 

{Signed) J. Henry Shorthouse. 

Mr. Shorthouse delighted in hearing good stories, and 
he had a way of turning them over in his mind, and then 
presenting them to his friends in a form edited and em- 
bellished by himself. I remember well how he came down 
one morning at Ripon, and rehearsed with great delight his 
own adorned version of a tale I had told him the previous 
night. His genuine enjoyment of things beautiful and 
things humorous gave a charm to his visits : he had none 
of that timid conventionality which lives in a perpetual 
panic lest it should by accident lose its correct pose. He 



J. HENRY SHORTHOUSE 217 

understood that in this life God had given us all things to 
enjoy, and he rejoiced in all the play of nature in its beauty 
and in its mirthfulness. All that was base and unworthy 
was outside the circle in which he lived. His spirit was 
citadelled, like the New Jerusalem ; without there might 
be dogs, but within there were the lovely, joyous and 
laughable things in which men's hearts could take delight. 

This happy spirit remained with him, I believe, to the 
last. I saw him on what was practically his deathbed : he 
was worn with his long illness — he was painfully emaciated, 
and I feared that he might be unequal to any conversation. 
My first instinct was to leave as soon as I could ; but I was 
soon undeceived. His mental vigour and clearness were 
remarkable : he entered into discussion of many points with 
his old eagerness and quaint originality. I spoke of his 
little parable of the playing cards, and he told me that a 
poem containing the same idea had been sent him from 
America. We spoke of other matters, still deeper and 
diviner, and the happy, childlike spirit of trust breathed 
through his utterances. 

When 1 left him I knew that I had seen him for the 
last time, and it was, and has been ever since, a joy to look 
back and recall the joyousness of one who lived as though 
the upper atmospheres of life were as real as the lower, and 
were those with which his soul had the nearest affinity. 



MY HOURS OF SICKNESS 



Do you know what it_ is to be smitten with an illness 
which brings no pain, but just powerlessness ? When you 
take up a book, and its weight is too much for your inert 
hands ? When you begin to read, and the weary brain 
cannot take in a single idea, and the words and letters seem 
a concatenation of senseless symbols ? When you can only 
lie still, and all power of reaction is faint ? When you are 
too feeble to be other than content, but yet are conscious 
that days are monotonous and uninteresting ? When you 
easily become the victim of some familiar tune which 
tyrannously repeats itself to your inner hearing ? When 
you wonder whether any happy distraction could deliver 
your brain from the reiteration of - impish ghostly sounds ? 
When everything seems to have come to a standstill : when 
the hopes that the time of illness may, by its enforced 
leisure, give you time for reading, are proved to be vain ? 
When the blood forsakes the brain, and the indifference 
which comes from weakness reigns supreme over the low 
and stagnant life ? 

I have known such days— prolonged into weeks — when 
sleep refused to refresh my nights or thought my days : 
when my wife would read to me night after night for 
hours at a time, till I heard in her voice that much-needed 

2l3 



MY HOURS OF SICKNESS 219 



slumber was calling to her to cease, while my bloodless 
brain only caught fugitive fragments from the legends of 
Don Quixote or Gil Bias. Then we would try to sleep ; 
but as soon as the light was put out and the story put away, 
wakefulness would come to me with a yearning for the 
happy unconsciousness of sleep. And then some tag of 
painfully appropriate poetry would begin to haunt me — 

" O Sleep ! it is a pleasant thing, 
Beloved from pole to pole." 

But though the lines would jingle in my ears, the blissful 
sleep did not glide into my soul. 

One day during such weary experiences my wife said to 
me, " Why not paint ? " Paint ! I had never had a lesson 
in my life. Was it not Cato that began to learn Greek at 
sixty ? That was more reasonable and possible than that I 
could Jearn to paint at fifty-three ! However, if I could 
not paint, I might play the fool with colours, and a paint 
brush is not too great a weight for a tired hand. I copied 
some water colours, and a fine mess of things I made ; but 
at length I amused myself with clumsy efforts to give form 
to passing fancies. I suppose I felt like the builders of our 
abbeys and cathedrals when they were left free to run riot 
with their imagination over fantastic designs for gargoyles 
or the mouths of water spouts. 

I tried painting objects — a glass filled with flowers ; but 
my wayward fancy scorned to be tied within such limits. 
There is a curious humorous instinct which visits us in 
times of illness, and I wanted to be amused ; and so I tried 
to amuse myself. If the reader will forgive the exhibition 



22o FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



of my frailty, he shall have the opportunity of laughing with 
me, or at me, as the mood may suit him. 

Here are some of them. Call them the perverse fancies 
of a sick brain if you will ; yet they served to pass away 
some weary hours, in which strenuous effort of body and 
mind were alike out of my power. 

They will explain themselves ; but 1 make a few notes 
here. The death duties, or rather the ways in which they 
are levied, seem to me neither wise nor considerate. The 
hour of death brings sorrow and distraction enough, without 
adding the inquisitorial power which comes to reduce re- 
sources at a time when, perhaps, financial pressure is great. 
If the Government had adopted the suggestion of a well- 
known banker, the country would have benefited in revenue 
and the present harsh and oppressive system would have 
given place to a method more generally acceptable. But 
the British public show great patience and forbearance, even 
if they do not manifest much wit, in allowing the present 
unwise and burdensome system to remain. 

The banker's suggestion was that the death duties should 
be raised by a system of insurance payments, and that the 
Government should be their own insurers. An annual 
payment would gladly be borne by many whose great desire 
is to secure the welfare of wife and children. Such a system 
would have given to the Government a much steadier 
revenue, besides the possible profit on the insurance 
business. 



WAR MEMORIES 



There is some fitness to-day in recalling memories 
of the Crimean War. It stands out in my memory 
with special vividness, not only because it was the first 
European war of my lifetime, but because I had kinsmen 
who fought in it and who were associated more or less 
closely with its vicissitudes. 

I shall never forget the day when as lads we stood 
behind the railings of St. Nicholas' Church and saw the 
troops marching by on their way to embark. The old 
tunes and songs of that day sometimes ring in my brain. 
I think that "The girl I left behind me" and "Three 
cheers for the Red, White and Blue " were among the most 
popular. 

I remember how, a little later, when we were in Ireland, 
we bade good-bye to my cousin, William Boyd, who was 
going to join the Scots Greys. He, poor fellow, never came 
back : he was one of the cholera victims. Talking of 
cholera, I recall a story told me by Lord Strafford, when 
he was Colonel Byng. I often met him at Windsor, and 
the tale he told was one of the most curious I have 
ever heard. 

It was during the terrible Crimean campaign, when 
cholera and disease were working havoc among our troops. 



222 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

One day it was reported that a certain officer was dead — a 
victim of cholera. The same evening, when a few brother 
officers were gathered, the conversation turned on the dead 
man. He was senior in years to many of the officers ; he 
was one of those men who had retired from active service, 
but who, on the outbreak of the war, had offered to fight for 
his country : he joined the regiment as what would to-day 
be called a "dugout." It had been a question among the 
younger officers whether the Major (I think that was his 
rank) wore a wig ; and now, as the little brotherhood of 
officers gossiped in the tent, they reverted to the question 
of the wig : Did the Major wear a wig ? " Well," said one, 
" we can settle that now by going and looking." The regi- 
mental doctor was present ; he had given the certificate 
that the Major had died of cholera, and he was ready to 
go with the party to the mortuary. A doctor attached to 
another regiment accompanied them on their expedition of 
investigation. They entered the mortuary : there lay the 
cold, impassive form of the Major who had challenged their 
curiosity. As they were looking, the doctor from the other 
regiment exclaimed, " That man is not dead." The regi- 
mental doctor differed. " The question is easily tested," said 
the other doctor. The test was applied : a slight prick and 
the blood began to flow. The man was not dead. It was 
a case of cholera trance. Restoration measures were taken 
and the Major's life was saved. Those who love to mark 
the part which little things play in the drama of life will 
reflect that in this case the Major owed his life to the legend 
of the wig. We have heard of a man's life hanging on a 
hair, but never before of its hanging on a wig. 



WAR MEMORIES 



223 



In the Crimean War I had several relatives. The most 
distinguished soldier of these was Sir Colin Campbell, after- 
wards Lord Clyde. I have explained in my previous 
volume the story of his early life and of his connexion 
with my grandmother — I have a cousin now alive who 
went to the Crimea with a letter of introduction from my 
grandmother to Sir Colin. When this cousin of mine 
visited my grandmother, she said to him, " When Colin 
Campbell left he gave me a seal, and he promised that 
whenever I sent him a letter sealed with that seal, he would 
do, if in his power, whatever I asked him — I am now going 
to seal my letter of introduction with that seal." My 
cousin, Duncan MacNeill, took the letter and went to the 
Crimea. He joined his own regiment, the Scots Greys ; 
and now he tells me in his happy, whimsical way what he 
did — or rather did not do — with the letter. He never 
presented it to Sir Colin. " I argued," he says smilingly 
to me, " I argued to myself in this way : If I present the 
letter Sir Colin will put me on the staff, and I shall have 
to leave my own regiment. I will stay where I am." So 
he remained with his own men, and took part in the siege 
of Sebastopol. 

When Sebastopol fell, he was among those who entered 
the fortress to occupy and guard it. He was full of curiosity 
to see the small defence-chambers which the Russian soldiers 
had used, and he obtained leave to examine one. Soon after 
he came out, a young English officer was seen to emerge 
from one of these dens : he had a book in his hand. The 
commanding officer hailed the young man, and demanded 
the book. It was given to him. The commanding 



224 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



officer glanced hastily over its pages and, looking up, he 
said, <c I don't suppose that many of you can read Russian ; 
but here is a curious thing. This book which has been 
left behind by the Russian soldiers is a Russian translation 
of Dickens' Pickwick Papers." So our opponents in the 
Crimean War were able to amuse themselves during the 
long hours of the siege with the works of an English writer 
— probably the most popular writer of the time. It is a 
happy omen when the interchange of literature can continue 
between peoples even in time of war. The brotherhood of 
letters is a bond of peace, and it is a deplorable thing that 
Germany should have used up so much literary energy in 
sowing seeds of distrust and hostility during recent years. 
This has added a bitterness to strife which had no counter- 
part among the combatants in the Crimean War. 

The story of the Crimean War was, like most of our wars, 
a story of stupefying blunders. The sufferings of our troops 
in the Crimea were great, and the surprising part of the 
matter was that they were needless. For long the troops 
suffered in patience, but at last the tale of their pains and 
privations became known. Public opinion demanded in- 
quiry, and in deference to it, two commissioners were 
appointed. One of these was Sir John MacNeill, whose 
brilliant and heroic work in Persia had done so much for 
British influence there : as his comrade in the commission 
Colonel Tulloch was appointed. They set off for the 
Crimea, animated by the simple desire to report truthfully 
and advise as wisely as they could for the health and feeding 
of the army. They were not welcomed too warmly by 
the officials of the army, who felt that their efficiency was 



WAR MEMORIES 



225 



questioned by the appointment of the commission. Like 
all who are conscious of shortcomings they resented inquiry, 
in spite of difficulties a report was drawn up. It was 
inevitable that it should call attention to blunders and 
negligence. Supplies were in Balaclava harbour, while the 
soldiers were suffering from want : food in plenty could be 
had from Black Sea ports. Our troops were starving amid 
plenty, because the transport was inadequate and the com- 
missariat unintelligent. It was the usual story of well- 
intentioned blundering. The commissioners had done their 
work : they presented their report to Parliament ; and then 
the curse of political partisanship began to show itself. To 
shield some cabinet minister from blame, the facts brought 
to light must be obscured, and to do this the commissioners 
must be disparaged. Military pride, which had resented a 
parliamentary inquiry into army affairs, joined with political 
necessity to belittle or ignore the services of men who had, 
at the bidding of Parliament, undertaken a difficult and 
ungrateful task. Further inquiry was demanded, and to 
appease official jealousy and to protect discredited incom- 
petency the further inquiry must be conducted by the 
military. This was the device of incompetency to cover 
uncomfortable facts. To crown all, the commissioners who 
had made their report were to be summoned before the 
new board of inquiry as though they were accusers instead 
of authorized investigators acting under Parliament. The 
position was absurd. Either the commissioners should 
never have been sent, or they should have been supported. 
Parliament had sent them : the Government had acquiesced 
and had sanctioned their mission, and now that difficulties 
Q 



226 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



created, not by new facts, but by wounded officialism, had 
arisen, Government left their own commissioners in the 
lurch and sought, like Pilate, to wash their hands of the 
affair. 

Sir John MacNeill, as might have been expected of a 
self-respecting man, declined to attend the new inquiry. 
He had done what was asked : he had given his report ; 
so far as he was concerned the matter was finished. He 
had nothing to withdraw, nothing for which to apologize. 
It was a slight on his integrity to expect him to attend. 
The Government must bear its own shame if shame there 
was. His hands were clean as his report was honest. His 
refusal to attend was the only dignified course. Not only 
was no recognition of his services forthcoming : the Govern- 
ment allowed him to be victim of unjust and unworthy 
suspicions. 

Happily for England, the public mind is often more 
healthy than the official mind. While the Government was 
seeking to conciliate jealousies and accommodate political 
differences, the people of the country saw clearly the 
immense services which the commissioners had rendered. 
The people knew that somebody had blundered : that the 
commissariat department had been hopelessly mismanaged ; 
the people recognized the public spirit and clear honesty of 
the two commissioners, and there was presented to them 
an address of public thanks, which did much to compensate 
for the lack of official recognition. It was certainly more 
valuable, because more genuine, than the precarious approval 
of politicians blinded by partisan timidities. 

Later on, Government gave in a halting fashion tardy 



WAR MEMORIES 227 

and inadequate recognition to the men who had courageously 
rendered such invaluable public service. 

GORDON AND WOLSELEY 

I suppose that we ought to dwell only on happy 
memories ; but, if so, we should be dropping out of our 
thoughts some of the experiences of life. I recall one time 
when, in common with the greater number of Englishmen, 
my heart passed through the stages of anxiety, doubt, hope, 
and disappointed indignation. It was the time when all our 
thoughts turned to the East, and we were watching the 
lonely figure of the man who, in solitude, represented the 
majesty and honour of England — when it became clear to 
most of us that Gordon's life was not secure in Khartoum. 
Now his statue is there and stately buildings have arisen, 
which tell the tale of the power which even after death may 
be wielded by a good and honest man. But then apprehension 
filled our hearts ; for Gordon was alone and unsupported ; 
his word was not being made good to the peoples around 
him ; the Government seemed apathetic — indifferent to the 
fate of the man who represented his country in a distant and 
doubtful land. Public feeling began to stir. If the Govern- 
ment would do nothing, the country was ready to do it. 
The Times was ready to lead in the equipment and dispatch 
of a volunteer army to go on an expedition of rescue or 
support. The columns of our newspapers were filled with 
letters which expressed surprise, indignation, anxiety, but 
all animated by the same spirit of readiness to help an 
enterprise which all thought was the duty of Government, 



228 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



but which, if the Government failed, the country was bound 
in honour to undertake. 

It was some relief to our anxiety when at last the 
Government broke silence. We were assured that the 
Government was quite alive to its responsibilities concerning 
General Gordon. We took this to mean that they were 
prepared to send a mission of relief ; but we were mistaken, 
for we did not weigh or measure the words of politicians, 
and so we failed to realize that to be assured that the 
Government were alive to their responsibilities did not mean 
that they recognized special responsibility for Gordon's 
safety. We were mistaken, • fatally mistaken ; the official 
words reassured the anxious, and the practical steps for the 
raising of a relief force were abandoned. 

But time went on, and no rescuing force was sent out ; 
as the season advanced the difficulties of a successful enter- 
prise increased. We all know what happened. Gordon 
was killed ; our expedition was too late. It seems to be an 
English failing — or rather a failing of English governments. 
There is a proverb which says " To be wise too late is the 
exactest definition of a fool " ; but to the Government which 
let Gordon perish a stronger word ought to be applied. 
The deceived people of this country ought to have ostracized 
the Government which allowed this dishonour to befall 
them. 

One eager apologist for the Government was in the habit 
of declaring that the expedition had been sent at the time 
which, in the opinion of experts, was sufficiently early and 
the fittest. Once when he made this statement in my hear- 
ing, I ventured to express a doubt. I had good reason for 



WAR MEMORIES 



229 



it, but I could not at the time disclose my authority, which 
came from Queen Victoria, so I was obliged to be silent as 
the defender of the Government reiterated, with an air of 
unquestionable confidence, his statement. Later, I had the 
opportunity of asking Lord Wolseley what were the facts 
of the case. I happened to sit next to him at the Royal 
Academy dinner. It was in 1888, and the evening was 
memorable to me because of the high order of the speak- 
ing, and the very striking speech of Lord Rosebery, who 
had to speak in a discouraging atmosphere, and showed 
great skill and self-command under very difficult circum- 
stances. During a quiet interval I asked Lord Wolseley to 
tell me, if he was at liberty to do so, whether the Gordon 
Relief Expedition had been sent out at a fitting time. He 
told me quite readily and frankly that he had urged that 
the expedition should be sent months before ; that Lord 
Hartington wished to send it, but that Mr. Gladstone would 
not. He spoke of his affection for Gordon ; so that 
personal as well as professional reasons made him wish to 
start while there was time to secure the success of the 
expedition. 

The dilatoriness — to call it by no worse name — the 
dilatoriness of the Government was bad enough ; but after 
the assurance which disarmed public anxiety for Gordon, the 
delay was criminal. It was a blot, and a serious blot, upon 
the record of a great career. 

Lord Wolseley was full of interesting recollections, and 
once he gave me the story of an adventure of his in early life, 
and the encounter with Lord Clyde which followed it. He 
told me this when we met at Canterbury in the opening 



2 3 o FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



days of the twentieth century. This was the story : As a 
young officer he took part, as we know, in the siege of 
Lucknow. He received orders from Lord Clyde to seize 
and hold a certain tower which would give command of 
one district ; on entering the town he made for this tower, 
and after a struggle succeeded in occupying it. When he 
took notice of the neighbourhood he discovered that near at 
hand there was another tower which would, if taken, give 
him an improved position ; he accordingly gathered his 
men, attacked the place, took the loftier tower, and was able 
to establish himself in a stronger and more commanding 
situation. " After I had done it," he said, " and when things 
were settling down after the fight, I took care to keep out 
of Lord Clyde's way ; for I knew that he would scold me." 
But the interview could not long be postponed, and soon 
Lord Clyde met him, and let loose his tongue in vigorous 
and emphatic terms, blaming him for exceeding orders. 
Lord Clyde, I gathered, could use strong language when he 
chose ; he indulged in it that day ; but when he had finished 
his set speech of condemnation, he shook Wolseley warmly 
by the hand and said, " But you did quite right." So the 
sting was taken out of the censure ; the cause of discipline 
was maintained, and the promptness of courageous initiation 
was approved by the old veteran. 

He also told me that when the soldiers entered the 
town, nothing would or could keep them from drinking 
any wine they came across. They had been warned that the 
natives had poisoned the wine, but fear did not restrain 
them — indeed, the men believed that the tale of poisoned 
wine had been invented to prevent them taking it. For- 



WAR MEMORIES 



231 



tunately, the wine drunk on the occasion did not prove to 
be poisoned. 

There are some who say that justice has not been done 
to the services which Lord Wolseley rendered to the army 
in promoting its efficiency, and improving its fighting power. 
This is a matter beyond my judgment. I can only narrate 
things which interested me, and which were told me in 
simple and soldier-like fashion by Lord Wolseley. He 
was always, as I knew him, kindly and natural in manner, as 
became one who had served his country well. 

LORD ROBERTS 

' From time to time I have heard conversations in which 
the characteristic qualities of various races have been dis- 
cussed. Some of these have possessed special interest, 
either because of the experience of those who have taken 
part in them, or because of the coincidence of opinion which 
has been brought to light ; or perhaps the way in which 
some popular delusion has been shattered. Of this latter 
class I may mention the Irishman, who is as little under- 
stood in England as is the Hindoo. The Irishman on the 
stage is usually as unlike an Irishman as the stage parson is 
unlike the real thing. Perhaps, however, it is better to 
let popular delusions have their way ; they are at least 
picturesque, and though hopelessly inaccurate, they serve to 
preserve a type of character which it is pleasant to believe 
represents a class or type. 

The Irishman is supposed to be an inexact thinker, a 
man who refuses to take a serious view of life, because he 



2 3 2 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



is always fascinated by the humour of things, and he prefers 
a joke to any piece of business ; he is, moreover, an im- 
prudent and usually an impecunious creature ; money slips 
quickly through his fingers, and he is as careless of coin as 
he is about keeping his roof weather-tight and his bedding 
in repair ; he is untidy, and he does not mind living in a 
dirty and slipshod fashion he is plausible and amiable, and 
if he does not tell the truth it is only because his amiability 
refuses to wound or dishearten you. The happy-go-lucky 
Irishman goes laughing through life, waving his shillelagh, 
flinging out his jokes, and carries his childish insouciance to 
the grave. Such is an approximation to the picture of the 
Irishman that is accepted by a large proportion of the British 
public. 

But Ireland, like England, is a country of contradictions, 
and when we speak of Irishmen, it would be well to ask 
whether we mean a man of the north, or a man of the 
south ; or indeed of east or west. Races in Ireland have 
blended, and Celt, Saxon, Dane and Scot — yes, and Spaniard 
too, have left their mark upon the old country. The 
fabled Irishman whose portrait I have sketched is not, 
after all, to be found as a matter of course anywhere in 
Ireland. You may meet him now and again in Dublin, and 
you may find him in a Wicklow village. You will not find 
him in Belfast, and I doubt whether you will be likely to 
meet him in Galway or Cork. The man of Celtic race is 
the man who would be selected by most people who were 
looking for a typical Irishman ; but the man of Celtic race 
bears little resemblance to the laughing, irrelevant creature 
of the stage. The Celt is timid and practical, tenacious of 



WAR MEMORIES 



233 



family ties, and willing to sacrifice himself for family interests ; 
he is affectionate, and his affection, blending with a timid 
dread of the future, creates a certain inconsistency of 
character which, because it puzzles people, is generally 
ignored. The strong sentiment of family affection gives 
rise to a momentary extravagance ; but the apprehension of 
the future establishes an almost penurious thriftiness. It is 
here that British judgment is so greatly astray. If we measure 
an Englishman with an Irishman on money matters, you 
will find that the money-saving instinct is much stronger 
in the Irishman than in the Englishman. The Englishman 
possesses a self-reliance which tempts him to ignore the 
future and the chance of a rainy day. The artisans of 
England are not given to thrift. They spend their wages up 
to the hilt ; for they believe that what has been done and won 
once can be done and won again. This difference explains, 
1 think, the fact that the savings' banks returns in Ireland 
are so much higher in proportion in Ireland than in England. 
Many an Irishman who lives in a hovel, which probably an 
Englishman would disdain to occupy, has a store-stocking 
up the chimney, and could cross your hand with silver if he 
would. But this timidity which leads him to provide against 
bad times does not imply any lack of courage. On the 
field of war the Irishman will not be one whit behind the 
Englishman or Scotchman in deeds of daring. 

One morning at breakfast, at Sandringham, three or four 
guests met who were leaving by the morning train. Lord 
Roberts and Mr. Arthur Balfour were at the table, and 
presently we were joined by a Foreign Minister whose 
name I have forgotten. The conversation turned on the 



234 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



behaviour of English, Irish and Scotch troops in the field. 
I think that I started the topic by asking Lord Roberts if he 
had noticed any characteristic differences among such troops. 

He said, "If you see a specially brilliant thing done 
in the field, you will find that, nine times out of ten, 
it is an Irishman who has done it." He described the 
English as being steady and trustworthy in fight, and 
especially good in defence ; but he said, " Take them for 
all in all, I think. I would rather command Scotch troops : 
they have more elan than the English and more steadiness 
than the Irish." But I gathered that, if it was needful to 
defend a difficult position, the Englishman would make 
the most of it. 

Parallel to this view of race qualities may be placed 
the following opinion given by one who knew sailors well. 
He was a chaplain who had ministered in some Seaman's 
Mission, and knew sailors belonging to all nationalities. 
He said, " Taking sailors all round, one is as good as 
another : the Swedish, the Dutch, the French, the Irish, 
the Scotch sailor is as good as the English ; but if it is 
a dirty night, and there is an ugly job to be done on the 
topmast, you must get an Englishman to do it." This is 
a view resembling that of Lord Roberts : the man needed 
at the last resort is the Englishman. 

I am tempted here to tell another tale which bears a 
similar moral. I was dining with the manager of The 
Times. Among the guests was the Rev. John Watson — 
better known as Ian MacLaren, the author of The Bonnie 
Brier Bush. Mr. Watson, as a Scotchman, was eager 
to know how young Scotchmen acquitted themselves in 



WAR MEMORIES 



journalism, and he plied our host with questions. At last 
our host gave the following general opinion on the quali- 
ties and powers of English, Irish, and Scotch leader-writers. 
" You know," he said, " that our leading articles are not 
devised by the men who write them. We talk to our 
young writers and tell them the line we want to be taken. 
If the writer is an Irishman he requires twenty minutes' 
talk before he writes ; if he is a Scotchman he will need 
half an hour ; if he is an Englishman he will need an hour." 

" Well, and with what result ? " asked Mr. Watson. 

" Oh, the Irishman writes the most brilliant article." 

" But what about the Scotchman ? " 

" Well," said our host, " the Scotchman writes a good 
article, but he is apt to put into it some idea of his own 
which we don't want. If, however," he added, "we want 
an article which requires special care, because some very 
important issues hang upon the tone and phrases of it, we 
must have an Englishman to do it." 

All these three anecdotes lead up to one conclusion : 
The Englishman is the emergency man of the world. 

Perhaps it is not making too long a leap from these 
stories of racial qualities to record here a judgment given 
concerning the late Prince Consort by Lord Palmerston. 
It was told me by Lord Mount-Temple. Of the Prince 
Consort, Lord Palmerston said, " He was a man who would 
have come to the front, whatever vocation in life he had 
adopted. If he had been a soldier, he would have become 
a general. If he had been a lawyer, he would have been 
a leader of circuit and a judge." This opinion, given by 
one who had good opportunities of judging, seems to me 



236 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



to give a pathetic interest to the life of the Prince Consort. 
He had the capacity to distinguish himself in some active 
career : with the capacity there was, no doubt, the desire 
for some sphere of individual self-expression ; but the con- 
ditions of his life denied him such outlet for his energies. 
He turned to the only things that were open to him : 
arts and letters ; and yet, when he sought to help in the 
organized recognition of Art in English life, his efforts were 
misunderstood and misrepresented. His earnest wishes 
to help were treated as uncalled-for interference. When 
he proposed to make Kensington a great centre of art 
treasures, Punch represented him as almost a purloiner 
of national pictures. Activity checked, and the natural 
energy deprived of every legitimate outlet, robbed life for 
him of much of its savour. We are not, perhaps, surprised 
to find him saying, when speaking of the King of Portugal's 
illness (it was typhoid fever), " If the Queen had been 
taken ill with it she would have recovered, for she wishes 
to live ; but if I had been attacked I should have died, 
for I have no wish to live." I remember that Queen 
Victoria said something of the same kind to me, which 
confirmed this view of the difference in temperament and 
feeling between her and the Prince Consort. I have met 
in some quarters a tendency to belittle the Prince Consort. 
1 never knew him, so I have no personal experience to 
draw upon ; but I think that this disparaging tendency is 
perhaps due to the fashion which treats with disdain every- 
thing early Victorian. From all I have heard 1 am inclined 
to believe that this disparagement is mistaken. Those 
who knew and met the Prince Consort frequently formed 



WAR MEMORIES 



237 



different views. I can recall with what affectionate admira- 
tion an old servant at Windsor Castle spoke of him. This 
official had charge of the royal plate, and understood and 
appreciated the artistic value of it. To him the memory 
of the Prince Consort was the memory of one who pos- 
sessed the knowledge and taste of an expert in these and 
all other works of art. 

The theme of racial characteristics started this chapter. 
It leads me to recall some characteristic memories. I have 
often asked men what was their earliest recollection, and at 
what age did their conscious memory, as it were, begin? 
The variety of answers has astonished me. The most 
remarkable discrepancy in age which I met with in my 
inquiries was that between the early recollections of Lord 
Goschen and Mr. Henry James. I found myself on one 
occasion, which I might call historic, seated between these 
two men : Lord Goschen on my left and Mr. Henry James 
on my right. I put my question to both of them. Lord 
Goschen replied, " The first thing I can remember was 
riding my little pony from Charlton to Blackheath to begin 
my time at Blackheath Proprietary School, and I remember 
the many indecorous questions with which the boys at the 
school assailed me ; but so little do I remember of my time 
there, that, though I remained four years at the school, I 
cannot say whether I was happy there or unhappy." I 
then turned to my right-hand neighbour and asked the 
same question. I received a more astonishing reply. "I 
remember," said Mr. Henry James, " what took place 
before I was twelve months old." He explained his reply 
as follows : " When I was six or seven years of age my 



2 3 8 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



parents took me to Paris. When 1 arrived I said to them, 
c I have been here before.' The second visit revived some 
memory of the first : the objects seen were familiar. 1 ' 

Naturally this was only the evidence that the buildings 
seen by the child a few months old had impressed them- 
selves on the retina or brain. This was the revival of an 
impression rather than a conscious recollection ; but it 
quite harmonizes with the story told by Dr. W. B. 
Carpenter in his Mental Physiology (pp. 430, 431). 

The story related to the Rev. Septimus Hansard, who 
was for some years rector of Bethnal Green. Mr. Hansard 
visited Hurstmonceux Castle, which he was desirous of 
seeing. When he reached the ruin he found it to be 
familiar to him. He searched his memory and he could 
not recall any visit to the place. He wrote to his mother, 
who replied that when he was about twelve months old, he 
had been taken to Hurstmonceux and left outside while 
his father and mother went over the castle. The child 
outside had had the features of the building impressed 
upon his eye, and the visit paid in later years simply 
recalled these earliest impressions. These seem to me to 
be the raw material of recollection. 



KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH 



The month of May 1910 will have a mournful memory 
for thousands. In the closing days of April, King Edward 
the Seventh returned from Biarritz. The people were con- 
tent to believe that he returned invigorated and refreshed 
by his stay abroad. On the 1st of May he was at Sandring- 
ham inspecting some alterations and improvements made 
in his much-loved country home. That day week the 
churches were draped in black ; the gay colours of May 
vanished from the streets ; the people went about in 
mourning dress ; voices were lowered ; vehicles were driven 
slowly and softly past Buckingham Palace, where the Royal 
Standard, which for a week had floated bravely, was half- 
mast high. On Saturday, the 7th of May, it was known in 
every part of the world that King Edward the Seventh was 
dead. 

The news was received with profound and startled 
emotion. The loss came upon the majority of the "King's 
subjects with bewildering suddenness ; for though he as- 
cended the throne comparatively late in life, there had 
been no sign of what is commonly called failing health : the 
probabilities pointed to a longer reign than the nine short 
years which had passed since his accession. But in the 
midst of the regular activities of his royal office, and at a 

time when all eyes looked to him as the one person in 

239 



2 4 o FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

whose hand was the key to unlock the gate of pressing 
difficulties, the end came, and the subjects of the empire 
were plunged in deep and dismayed grief. They were left 
also to understand, if they could, the full significance of the 
loss which had befallen them. 

Their first thoughts leaped irresistibly to the gracious 
lady who, the first day she set foot upon our shores, had 
awakened their admiring welcome, and who, by virtue of 
her charm of manner and simple goodness, had won their 
trust and their love. To her first went forth the people's 
sympathy ; and their prayers and their solicitude were for 
the widowed Queen. But in the early days of sorrow any 
estimate of the meaning of the sad event was impossible. 

After the first shock the leading minds of the country — 
the statesmen, the writers, the teachers — began to measure 
the national loss. When they did so, and when they en- 
deavoured to express the loss in words, the general harmony 
of opinion which was expressed seems to attest the correct- 
ness of the conclusion which had been reached by so many 
independent minds. What was said was accepted as true : 
the eulogiums on the late King caused much emotion but 
no surprise. And this fact is the most surprising fact of all 
connected with the King's death ; for the mourning and 
sympathetic words which summed up the value of the reign 
described the late King' s influence and power in a way 
which would have seemed extravagant and impossible in 
1 90 1. 

Ten years before, while Queen Victoria still lived — or 
even nine years before, when the King was commencing his 
reign — few could have anticipated the high reputation and 



KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH 



widespread renown which these days of mourning proved 
King Edward to have won. He was a well-known and 
popular figure in England and throughout Europe, and, as 
far as acquaintance with his character and talents went, some 
forecast of his reign might have been attempted by those 
who had watched his career ; but not the most courageous 
or sanguine of his friends and admirers could have dreamed 
that within little more than nine years his death would evoke 
such an unbroken flood of eulogy and such widespread testi- 
mony to his work and worth as a king. He was then, as he 
always has been, a popular favourite — a country gentleman, 
alive to agricultural interests and alert to accept and promote 
every well-tested method of improvement, and yet not a 
mere farmer-prince, a keen sportsman and a travelled man, 
whose figure was familiar in the health and pleasure resorts 
of Europe — and who possessed in a high degree the joie de 
vivre and a warm wish that others should enjoy life also. 
It is true that in the later years of his venerable mother's 
life he discharged with that grace and bonhomie which were 
peculiarly his own some of what may be called the orna- 
mental functions of royalty ; but none of these duties were 
adequate tests of kingly capacity. Everyone knew when he 
ascended the throne that the new sovereign was a kindly 
man, possessed of gracious manners, quick perception, and 
native dignity ; but few, if any, would have ventured to 
predict that his reign would close among tributes to the 
wide and effective influence of his reign. 

Let anyone go back in memory ; let him forget for a 
moment the record of that reign of nine years ; and then let 
him read the eulogiums of later days, and he will realize how 



242 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



far they go beyond anything that could have been imagined 
at the commencement of King Edward's reign. Let me 
take, first, the public utterances of our responsible leaders 
in the Houses of Parliament. 

Lord Crewe spoke as follows : " We look back at these 
last nine years with thankfulness and pride. T think we all 
recognize that at the time of the late King's accession the 
task before his Majesty was one of exceptional difficulty. 
He succeeded at a comparatively advanced age to the great 
Queen who had become in her lifetime almost a legendary 
figure, and whose person seemed to be, as it were, part of 
the British Constitution itself. Whatever King Edward's 
reign might be, it could not be the same as that of Queen 
Victoria ; and now, as we cast our thoughts backwards, we 
are able sincerely to declare that, though different, the late 
reign has not suffered by comparison. The prosperity, the 
orderly progress of the nation, the strengthening of imperial 
ties, and, above all, the maintenance of peace, if these be the 
signs of a great and glorious reign, they are fulfilled in that 
of which we are now lamenting the close." 

Lord Lansdowne followed : " The nation," he said, " is 
absolutely unanimous at the present time. We know at 
this moment no distinction of party, race, or religious per- 
suasion. . . . The nation has lost an illustrious head. . . . 
His Majesty had established relations with the chiefs of 
other states and with the public men of other states which, 
enabled him to bear unostentatiously, and strictly within the 
limits of the Constitution, a distinguished and useful part in 
international affairs ; and, to my mind, amongst the many 
remarkable attributes of the late King, none was more re- 



KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH 



markable than his power of creating what I can only describe 
as an atmosphere of international goodwill and good feeling 
— an atmosphere the presence of which diminished asperities, 
if asperities were there ; made difficulties easier of solution, 
if there were difficulties ; and contributed immensely, if I 
may use the words of the Address, to the consolidation of 
peace and concord throughout the world. At this moment 
I am convinced that there is not a Chance Her ie in Europe 
which does not recognize that by the death of Edward the 
Seventh a great international force has been removed from 
the public affairs of Europe — a force which always operated 
to the public good, and which I think all are justified in 
believing will not cease entirely to operate now he has 
left us." 

Mr. Asquith, in the House of Commons, said : " In 
external affairs his powerful personal influence was steadily 
and zealously directed to the avoidance not only of war but 
of the causes and pretexts for war. He well earned the title 
by which he will always be remembered : the Peacemaker of 
the world." 

Mr. Balfour — after pointing out that ordinary diplomacy 
is no part of the monarch's duty 7 — said : " We must not 
think of him as a dexterous diplomatist. He was a great 
monarch, and it was because he was able naturally, simply 
through the incommunicable gift of personality, to make all 
feel — to embody to all men — the friendly policy of this 
country, that he was able to do a work in the bringing 
together of nations which has fallen to the lot of few men, 
be they king or be they subject, to accomplish." 

Lord Rosebery, a few days later, in London, spoke no 



244 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

less emphatically : " It is not too much to say that our late 
King — I say it in my heart and conscience — in view of the 
character and the weight that he had established in the 
councils of the world, in view of the efforts he was con- 
stantly making for the promotion of peace, in view of the 
sympathy by which he was enabled to knit together nations 
other than his own, was at the time of his death one of the 
greatest agencies for good existing in the world." 

It would be impossible to give even a summary of the 
public eulogies of great personal authorities — all of which 
were cast in the same strain of honest and genuine admira- 
tion of the late King's personal force and influence — but 
two utterances which come from more private sources will 
be of interest. In Egypt the foreign element spoke of the 
King as the chief of European sovereigns, and a responsible 
French official declared that the death of the King would be 
worse than the death of the President. Perhaps the most 
felicitous eulogy came from the German Emperor, who 
telegraphed these words : a King Edward represented the 
incarnation of the fine qualities of his country. Britain, in 
mourning him, mourns herself." 

These words of warm appreciation are not the words of 
careless rhetoric. They have been uttered or written by 
statesmen of tried position — possessed of wide experience 
of men and affairs ; they have been uttered for the most 
part in the hearing of those who carefully watch every 
phrase, who are ready to consider and criticize the words 
selected, weighing whether they are adequate, and who 
would resent empty panegyric as strongly as they would 
unkindly depreciation. And it is interesting to note what 



KING EDWAR THE SEVENTH 



we call the common denominator in which all agree. We 
may remove from our thoughts the obvious and surface 
features of their appreciation. The late King loved sport, 
and the English people love it too ; he took pleasure in the 
recreations of his people ; he felt also for their sorrows, and 
he desired to see the sufferings of his people alleviated by 
all that human skill could devise and achieve. To this his 
practical interest in hospitals and the establishment of the 
fund which bears his name amply testify. He possessed 
a ready kindliness : a thousand stories of the late King's 
quick thoughtfulness were told throughout the country. 
One which is typical of his prompt sympathy may be cited. 
At a great public function in a large provincial city a lady 
was present whom the King had met, perhaps, half-a-dozen 
times before. His quick eye noted her in the crowd ; he 
immediately stepped forward, and showed how exact and 
kind his remembrance of her was by expressing with genuine 
solicitude the hope that her health was now re-established. 
But these, pleasing features as they are, were not those to 
which the greatest weight was attached. The loss recog- 
nized by all was the loss of one whose influence was a 
steadying factor in great matters. This was the common 
denominator of their appreciation. He was one whose place 
and personality made him a force on the side of national 
stability — a force valuable at all times, but more than ever 
valuable in times of national anxiety.' 

This is the great feature upon which the wise men of 
our day have been led to dwell. 

The Zendavesta speaks of a kingly glory made by 
Mazda — a glory that cannot be forcibly seized. There is 



246 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



such a glory, which shows itself in unasserted but real 
strength ; it is a glory of character which cannot be gained 
by force — either physical or intellectual : it can only be won 
by habitual rectitude in one's calling — by virtue of that 
simple-minded and loyal devotion to the life-task which is 
given to each of us. The value of this glory and strength 
is plainly told in the English history of the last eighty or 
ninety years. The predecessors of Queen Victoria had not 
done much to endear the Throne to the people : they lacked 
the kingly glory which is above force. It was reserved for a 
woman into whose girlish hands the sceptre was given to win 
by her blameless life, by her tender and ready sympathy, by 
her genuine and unselfish industry in national affairs, the 
affectionate loyalty and reverent attachment of the people. 

When King Edward ascended the throne at an age when 
all that needed to be learned must have been learned before- 
hand, men hoped more than they expected from his reign. 
But soon, to the qualities which all knew that he possessed 
other powers were displayed, and the nation recognized that 
the sceptre was in the hands of a prince possessed not only 
of attractive but of right kingly attributes. His rare saga- 
city, his unerring tact, his happy, alluring grace of manner 
were enough to transform foes into friends, and lukewarm 
friends into staunch champions ; but beyond all these there 
was in him that kingly rectitude of spirit, which never de- 
scended to intrigue, never sought, as other monarchs have 
been tempted to do, to create a king's party ; in short, he 
knew that he was a constitutional sovereign, and he unflinch- 
ingly accepted those limitations which often meant the lonely 
endurance of much anxious responsibility ; and in spite of 



KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH 



conditions which must have made him crave for sympathetic 
conference with old and trusted friends, he went through his 
task with heroic silence and remained chivalrously loyal to his 
constitutional advisers. It is not given to very many to 
know when and how to speak ; it is given to fewer to know 
when to be silent ; it is given to fewer still to keep silence, 
even when silence is best. But King Edward the Seventh 
was able to do this with such constancy and consistency that 
it is not too much to say that he was himself a martyr to 
his own ideal of constitutional duty. In this he showed 
that quality which, as Tennyson sang, marked the Prince 
Consort's character — "sublime repression of himself." Thus 
he could keep silence, but wherein he could rightly express 
himself he was happy in his utterance : when the needs of 
others was the theme he could plead warmly and bravely 
on their behalf. In all good causes he sought, and success- 
fully sought, to enlist the sympathy and co-operation of 
others. In this the recognized loyalty of his nature increased 
the range of his influence ; and when the cause for which 
he worked was the amity of nations he was able, without 
transgressing the code of diplomatic etiquette, to promote 
that spirit of personal friendliness which of itself works 
against international friction. He knew personally the 
leading men of other lands, and he was able, as Lord 
Lansdowne said, to create that " atmosphere " which was 
favourable to the growth and development of friendly 
international relationships. 

When we ask what was the secret which made the late 
King such a strong national and international power, the 
answer is to be found not in the record of definite actions 



248 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



or conspicuous achievements, but in the unconsciously exer- 
cised power of his personality. This was the power which 
created the atmosphere of which I have spoken. It was 
the effluence of a characteristic personality — genuine, loyal, 
single-minded — which made his influence strong. His 
power was not due to deliberate effort, but for that reason 
it was more effective than any conscious exercise of force. 
For, as love is stronger than logic, because it is the output 
of the whole personality, so is that influence which springs 
from what is the essential being, more powerful and more 
abiding than the mere intellectual forces, however brilliant 
and attractive they may be. 

The powers and gifts of the late King were in a great 
measure hidden. As clear water conceals its depth, so his 
attractive manner and unmistakable kindliness concealed 
much of the real force which lay behind. Here I may be 
forgiven for speaking of two scenes indelibly fixed upon my 
memory. I saw him first nearly sixty years ago in Liverpool. 
It was a day of cloud and continual rain : as we waited for 
the royal procession, the crimson carpet which stretched 
along the pier-side and down the bridge to the landing-stage 
was drenched and robbed of colour : once, if not twice, fresh 
strips of carpet were laid down. At length we saw the 
royal visitors : the Queen and Prince Albert passed, but 
my clearest recollection is of the fair boy, about my own 
age, whose sunny hair made a brightness upon the grey 
scene, as he lifted his cap in answer to the salutations of the 
crowd. Even then, boy as I was, I noticed the native and 
unaffected grace with which he bore himself. The last time 
T saw him, he lay with folded hands, calm and still upon his 



KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH 



narrow bed. It was hard to believe that I was looking upon 
the one whose bright, boyish and untired face I had seen 
more than half a century earlier ; for in the hour of death's 
carving, something unrecognized before comes out, and the 
quiet face and noble head I looked upon showed marks and 
features of force and power which in life were sweetly veiled 
by the brightness of his smile and the charm of his manner. 

The final lesson of the King's reign is the simple and 
continuous lesson. We are tempted, in estimating life, to 
attach wrong values to things ; we rate our powers of mind 
too highly ; we adorn with fictitious importance our theories; 
we cling superstitiously to the narrow range of prejudices 
which we call our opinions ; meanwhile, we forget that the 
total man is more than his views : the aura of his influence 
widens and shrinks not by what he thinks and says, but by 
what he is : the outflow of his personality spreads further 
than his words and flows into other hearts with penetrating 
power. 

The survey which I have thus briefly made is, from the 
nature of the case, incomplete, but it includes, I venture to 
think, the essential factors of that great problem which is 
continuously before us in the history of nations. The 
problem is that of national longevity. Does a nation, as 
Herder taught, follow like a plant the regular law of birth, 
growth and decline ? Are the virtues and vices which it 
displays merely matters of mechanical condition ? What 
place has reason and freedom in their destiny ? To those 
who accept the mechanical theory of national life — whether 
in the optimistic form set forth by Herder or in the pes- 
simistic form of M. Taine — vice and virtue in a nation's 



2 so FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



history are mere products, like vitriol or sugar. But to 
those who discriminate between the character of the laws 
which prevail in the physical realm and those which 
prevail in the realms of thought and moral feeling, vice 
and virtue are related to human will and human reason 
and cannot be classed as subject to identically the same laws 
which rule the physical world. The confusion of thought 
which proclaimed the existence of natural law in the spiritual 
world has wrought a great deal of unintentional harm. The 
reign of law may be, and probably is, complete ; but it is as 
needful to ascertain the laws of the moral and spiritual world 
as it is to discover those in the material world. And it is a 
mere indolent assumption to suppose that the laws of the 
world spiritual are identical with those that prevail in the 
physical realm. It is absurd to read human history or nationa* 
history as though it were governed by merely physical agents ; 
blind forces forming organizations — which we call nations or 
men — in precisely the same fashion as a chemical body is 
formed of a combination of simple elements. The true 
reading of human history is the understanding of the ideas 
and personalities which have mingled in its making. Great 
ideas have animated a family or a tribe : they have found 
expression in one or more great personalities, and the tribe 
has grown into a nation. The great idea of a protecting and 
governing God, of the possibility of a splendid future, en- 
forced by the example, the eloquence, and the commanding 
personality of a great leader like Moses, laid the foundations 
of Israel's glory. Parallels can be found in the stories of 
other peoples. Humanity, broken up into families which 
become nations, learns to follow some great idea— as Israel 



KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH 251 

followed the Shekinah which led to the land of promise. In 
doing so humanity enters upon its splendid struggle against 
the tyranny of mere material forces. Follow the migration 
of the human race from the East to the West, note its 
long journey from Asia to Europe, from India to France, 
and at each stage you will see lessened the fatal power of 
nature : the influences of race and climate become less des- 
potic. Humanity, once overwhelmed, paralyzed, enervated 
before the tremendous forces of nature, slowly emancipates 
itself. Fatalistic conceptions become rarer. Nature is better 
understood. Man becomes aware of his power : he realizes 
that nature is his keeper, not his tyrant ; his ideas widen 
with growing knowledge and with the happy confidence 
which strengthens as his knowledge of the world he inhabits 
increases. The realization of great ideas is possible if men 
will put their lives at the service of such ideas ; but the 
devotion of the life is the essential condition of victory. 
Man accepts the condition : the hero and the martyr be- 
come figures in history : they are recognized as the men of 
light and leading, the true benefactors of the race — 

" Figlio del sangue e vero." 

And among such benefactors we may rightly place King 
Edward VII — a great English king among kings, some 
of whom were great indeed. " We have lost a great king, 
one of the greatest in history." This sentence from an 
admirable leader in "The Times may seem precipitate in 
judgment, but there is a sense in which even to-day we 
may recognize its truth. Greatness is not of one kind 
alone. The greatness of conspicuous action is not open 



252 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



to all ; but there is a greatness which, if not dazzling, is 
of abiding value. There is a greatness which recognizes 
clearly the limitations which bound its activity, which dis- 
cerns what may be done within the limits assigned by 
Providence. In the final verdict upon men and their lives, 
the judgment will not be according to the public splendour 
of their deeds, but according to the use they have made of 
their gifts within the limit of their legitimate opportunities. 
In other words, it is the character inspiring and directing 
our activities which gives them their true value. 

I had often met King Edward at Windsor or at Osborne 
when he was Prince of Wales, and he had invited me to 
preach at Sandringham from time to time. I remember 
that at my first visit I was anxious on the Sunday morning 
to be at church in good time. I watched the clock, and 
when it left me, as I believed, about twenty minutes before 
service, I started for the church. I had hardly set foot 
upon the threshold, when I heard a voice calling after me, 
" Bishop ! Bishop ! " I turned, and found that the Prince 
of Wales was summoning me. " You are going too soon," 
he said ; " there is nearly an hour before service/' Then 
my mistake became clear : I had forgotten the trick of 
the Sandringham clocks, which were kept half an hour in 
advance of the real time. Theoretically it was very easy 
to readjust one's ideas about time or to reset one's watch, 
but practically one found that one was the victim of a 
haunting doubt whether the clock or watch one looked 
at represented Greenwich or Sandringham time. 

This, however, was a trifling matter, and one more for 
self-amusement than vexation. The time at Sandringham 



KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH 253 



was always most enjoyable. There was a freedom which 
sprang from the genial kindliness of the King and from 
the sweet graciousness of the Queen. The household 
officers and those in waiting were all filled with the same 
gracious and kindly spirit which the royal hosts possessed. 

At Sandringham, too, one met interesting people. I 
can recall very vividly my meeting there with Cecil Rhodes. 
It was dark when I reached Sandringham. At the station 
one of the gentlemen-in-waiting said to me, "The King 
wishes you to drive up with him." I entered the carriage ; 
it was too dark to discern any one. The King, however, 
motioned me to sit beside him, and, as we started, he intro- 
duced me to a figure on the opposite seat. I just caught 
the name, Mr. Rhodes, but I felt uncertain whether I had 
caught it correctly. However, on reaching the house I dis- 
covered that my fellow-guest was the great empire builder. 

The next day, Sunday, I preached at Sandringham 
Church. The collections at the morning service were 
given to the Gordon Boys' Home, in which King Edward 
took a keen interest. This interest may be judged by the 
fact that on the corresponding Sunday in the previous year 
I had been given the duty of commending this charity to 
the generosity of the guests at Sandringham. The last 
time I preached at Sandringham — five months before the 
King's death — the collection was given to the same object. 
On this Sunday Mr. Rhodes did a characteristic thing. 
Walking with Sir George Higginson, he asked, u How 
much would it require to pay for the keep of one lad 
always at the home r " — in other words, what sum of money 
would yield an income to endow for ever one lad's main- 



254 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



tenance. A sum of something over £400 was mentioned. 
Mr. Rhodes gave his cheque for the amount, and remarked 
that he disliked piecemeal or unfinished work : he liked to 
do things with completeness. 

In the evening Mr. Rhodes came and sat down beside 
me. He said, " Bishop, how is it that ideas come into 
one's head — great thoughts which drop unexpectedly into 
one's mind — the origin and suggestion of which one cannot 
trace?" 1 reflected a moment and I said, <c I think that 
when great and noble ideas come to us they are the gift 
and suggestion of the divine spirit : they are God's mes- 
sage." He answered with a reverent voice, " I don't think 
I could claim that." And then in a whimsical way, he 
added, " I call them microbes of the brain." 

As I recall those pleasant Sundays at Sandringham, one 
or two interesting recollections spring to my mind. I 
recall one Sunday evening in which I sat near the King 
while the band played. Some piece of Verdi's started a 
memory in the King's mind, and he told me that when he 
was young he paid a visit to Italy, and at that time Verdi's 
name roused the greatest enthusiasm among the Italian 
people. It was not, however, merely because he was a 
popular composer, but because the letters of his name stood 
for the national hopes of the people. Wherever the name 
was written the prophecy of Italy united under the rule of 
the Re Galant'uomo was read : Verdi stood for Vittorio 
Emanuele Re d'ltalia. 

The last time I had the privilege of speaking to the 
King was on May 3, 19 10. The King had fixed noon 
that day for the homage of a newly appointed bishop. I 



KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH 255 

was in attendance as Clerk of the Closet. The King 
went through the little ceremony with his usual grace and 
cordiality, but I felt that it needed more effort on his part 
than usual. He was pale and looked fagged ; but his 
kindliness did not desert him. When the formal function 
was over, the Bishop rose from his knees and the King 
addressed him with a few sympathetic words. c< You have 
a large diocese/' he said to the bishop, " and a great many 
parishes in it," and then, with a half-humorous air, he 
said, " and some of them are not as good as they ought 
to be," and he looked at me as he added, " we know that, 
don't we ? " I admitted the truth. Then the King said 
to the newly made bishop : " They will need a firm hand." 
This closed the interview. We bowed ourselves out. It 
was the last time I saw him alive. It was a Tuesday. On 
the Friday night he passed away. 

On the Monday Queen Alexandra sent for me. Soon 
after noon I was at the palace ; after a little delay I was 
taken to the Queen's room. The Queen came in, she drew 
me to the sofa, and we sat down. She said that she felt 
like stone. I could only say that it was perhaps merciful 
that we could not realize the full meaning of such a loss 
at the first. On her return from Greece, when she passed 
through Venice, she told me how a strong impulse, as though 
a premonition of coming danger, had led her to shorten 
her stay abroad and to hurry home. " Stay if you will," 
she had said to her travelling companions, " I must be with 
my husband." She told how, when she arrived, the King 
had stood up and walked to meet her, how, forgetful of 
himself, ill as he was, he had asked her about everything 



256 FURTHER PAGES OF' MY LIFE 



and wanted to hear her news. She told how restlessness 
took hold of him as the end drew near : even when sadly 
weakened he tried to walk into the next room, how at 
the last she stood near him with his head resting on 
her shoulder — how the end came after an interval of 
unconsciousness. 

Then she said, "You would like to see him." She 
led me through two or three rooms till we came into the 
King's own bedroom. An oblong room with windows on 
the left as we entered ; the greater part of the room was 
free of furniture : at the far end on the right was a folding 
screen. The Queen passed behind it ; I followed : near the 
wall, parallel to the windows, was a small single bed, covered 
with a simple white counterpane ; and there, lying with his 
hands just touching one another across his breast, lay the 
dead king. The face was pale ; the expression calm and 
placid ; he might have been asleep. 

I went forward and fell on my knees beside him and 
kissed the cold right hand which was near me, and for a 
few moments I prayed. I rose and looked at the Queen. 
I could say nothing. I kissed her hand : the tears were 
in both our eyes : my voice refused utterance. At last I 
stammered out some commonplace remark that he looked 
peaceful, and that such a peaceful expression would leave 
a happy memory with her. She spoke about prayer, 
wondering whether prayers at the bedside of the uncon- 
scious could do much good. I said, a It can never be 
a mistake to tell God what we need and what we feel. All 
times are good for prayer." Then I added, " Shall we 
pray now ? " We knelt by the bedside. I prayed, saying 



KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH 257 



what came uppermost from my heart. We rose, the tears 
were in her eyes. I said, " Shall I leave you here ? " 
She said, " Yes," and I left her with her dead. 

It seemed but a day since I had been with her at 
Osborne, when she wept as the sense of the responsibility 
of sovereignty came over her. Further back my thoughts 
went to the day in March, forty-eight years before, when 
as an undergraduate I had witnessed the rejoicings and 
the fireworks on Parker's Piece in Cambridge and was 
nearly crushed to death by the crowd which had gathered 
to do honour to the Prince of Wales' wedding day. 

The King is dead : Long live the King ! So go the 
old words of national faith and hope. From the past 
we look to the future. The King died at a moment of 
national anxiety. There were moments in which our 
fears of national feud were great, but outward events 
have driven away the clouds. External peril has united 
the hearts of all. 

When King Edward died I ventured to say that such 
an event called for national searching of heart — now 1 can 
reiterate the thought with greater emphasis. 

Professor Sir Charles Waldstein, in one of his addresses, 

told the story of a great foreign statesman who, after 

a discussion on international affairs, sadly said : " I have 

been sometimes tempted to ask myself whether the 

prosperity or continued existence of my own nation is 

really needful or useful to the world." Whatever answer 

independent thinkers in different lands may give to such 

a question, one thing is sure — the nation or people which 

is not wanted in the world will perish out of it. The 
s 



258 FURTHER PAGES OP MY LIFE 



conditions of national existence and true national prosperity 
are simple and clear. The peoples of weak character — 
deficient jn moral force, destitute of self-reliance, disdainful 
of truth, lacking the instincts of freedom, and justice — quickly 
fall under the domination of stronger peoples. In estimating 
the secret of Anglo-Saxon power, M. Demolins placed it 
in the self-reliance in which British lads were trained. In 
estimating the source of the strength of Ancient Rome, 
another French writer found it in manliness and reverence. 
Byron struck the same note when he wrote of Rome — 

" 'Twas self-abasement led the way 
To villain bonds and despots' sway." 

The old Hebrew taught the same truth when he said : 
" Righteousness exalteth a nation." Here, then, at this 
trying and terrible moment of our history, may we not well 
pause and take stock of our national inheritance ? If in 
this great national crisis all party lines vanish, if all 
can stand, as Lord Lansdowne said, shoulder to shoulder 
in this common distress, can we not stand together also in 
the determination that henceforth we will sanction no 
laws, tolerate no fashions, which tend to the weakening or 
demoralization of national character ? If health depends 
upon the quality of the blood, national health and vigour 
depend upon the moral sympathies and ideals which are 
accepted by a people and incorporated into their thoughts 
and activities. And as it is easy to undermine health by 
adopting a diet which impoverishes or pollutes the blood, 
so is it easy also, through lowered ideals, lowered manners 
and customs, to spread weakness, and with it, perchance, 
seeds of decay throughout national life. Love of sport is 



KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH 259 



good ; but it is evil when sport falls into professional hands 
and the public interest is less in the achievements of the 
field than in the opportunity of some gambling gain. 
Pleasure is natural and good : " all work and no play " is 
proverbially bad for men as well as boys ; but a dislike 
of work, with a feverish love of pleasure, soon works disas- 
ter : play ceases to be pleasure, and discontent follows, and 
meanwhile the capacity for effective and successful work 
is destroyed. Philanthropists have often striven to secure 
for downtrodden races their rights, but it is a sign of 
national decline when men clamour for their rights and 
speak lightly or seldom of their duties. 

To be elected for a constituency and to be privileged 
therefore to write "M.P." after his name may attest, 
and probably does attest, a man's personal capacity — some 
energy of will and some measure of judgment ; but it 
does not always carry with it the pledge of undeviating 
rectitude and singleness of purpose. It has been allied 
with flexibility of principle and flabbiness of character. 
Parliamentary government will suffer, and suffer justly, in 
public esteem should the House of Commons degenerate 
into an assembly of men gathered together to register the 
wishes or will of that section of their constituents which 
has secured their return. <c If government were a matter 
of will upon any side," said Mr. Burke to the electors of 
Bristol, " yours, without question, ought to be superior. 
But government and legislation are matters of reason and 
judgment, and not of inclination ; and what sort of reason 
is that in which one set of men deliberate and another 
decide, and where those who form the conclusion are 



260 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



perhaps three hundred miles distant from those who hear 
the argument ? To deliver an opinion is the right of all 
men : that of constituents is a weighty and respectable 
opinion, which a representative ought always most seriously 
to consider. But authoritative instructions — mandates issued, 
which the member is bound blindly and implicitly to obey, 
to vote and to argue for, though contrary to the clearest 
conviction of his judgment and conscience — these are things 
utterly unknown to the laws of the land, and which arise 
from a fundamental mistake of the whole order and tenour 
of our constitution." 1 It follows from this that to sur- 
render his conviction of what is really right and good for 
the country to the demands of party is, on the part of 
a member of Parliament, a betrayal of trust. 1 shall never 
forget the shock I once received when a member of 
Parliament waited upon me one Sunday afternoon and 
requested me to sign a petition praying the House of 
Lords to reject a certain measure for which he himself 
had voted in the House of Commons. Men who act in 
this fashion are lowering the standard of public morality, 
and promoting so far the slow decline of national character 
and national vigour. 

The death of King Edward was a national loss : it 
stirred our emotions. Since then has come the war, and 
another set of emotions has been stirred ; the value of such 
feelings of loyal sorrow and ardent patriotism will only be 
secured if sentiment is translated into action, and if the 
nation which has experienced a common peril and common 

1 Burke — Speech at the conclusion of the poll at Bristol. Works, 
vol. iii. pp. 19, 20. J 



KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH 261 



grief is henceforth animated by some higher principle of 
life. We need to resolutely set ourselves to revive those 
ancient virtues which won for us our freedom at home 
and our reputation for truth and honour abroad. The 
deep reverence for the British flag everywhere springs from 
the recognition of our love of liberty, duty and truth. 

One of the London newspapers reported some words 
spoken by people in that marvellous crowd of sorrowful 
and reverent mourners who passed through Westminster 
Hall to pay their last homage to their dead King. One 
person said, " It is beautiful." Another said, " It is won- 
derful." A third said, " I should like to stay here and 
pray." The writer of the report made the just comment 
that the third speaker expressed most truly the feeling 
which filled the hearts of that vast concourse of British 
people. If the spirit of this feeling remains with us, if 
stronger trust in God and a more genuine recognition 
of Him in life and conduct fills the soul of the nation, 
it will do much to raise the tone of popular thought and 
expel what is selfish and, therefore, vulgar among us. 

The best tribute which we can pay as we recall the 
memory of the late King is to resolve on earnest and 
unselfish devotion to the welfare of the kingdom which 
he loved and served so well, and, remembering how 
much he was able to accomplish for his people by the 
influence of his personality, to turn all endeavours more 
to the making of noble character than to the passing of 
new laws. Laws may be good and useful, but character 
is a far greater national asset. It is this lesson which 
national loss and danger are teaching us, and, if we can 



262 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



learn it, our pain and peril will not have been in vain. 
If henceforward men of upright character, inflexible honesty 
of purpose, and unselfish lives are gathered round our King 
to support and encourage him ; if the lofty and gentle 
influences of his happy and united home life are reflected 
in the homes of our country ; if the passion of service expels 
the spirit of self-seeking ; if personal character is accepted 
as the real strength of the nation, then the lessons of King 
Edward's short and glorious reign will not be wholly thrown 
away. 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 



Gentle reader, I bespeak your chanty and righteous 
judgment as you read this chapter. You will approach it, 
I fear, with certain preconceived opinions. I do not blame 
you ; for I do not see how it can be otherwise. The man 
who is the subject of the chapter looms too large in the 
imagination of men to-day to be ignored, and his actions 
hi policy and war have been necessarily brought under the 
judgment of his contemporaries. People have, as it were, 
made up their minds about him, and they pronounce their 
opinions with emphasis and without hesitation. I am not 
here challenging the views of any who have formed their 
judgment of the Emperor on adequate and carefully con- 
sidered grounds. 1 am not putting forward my own opinion 
as being better than theirs. I am content to say that we 
can only speak, each of us, from such knowledge as we 
possess ; we are all responsible to take care that our 
judgment is brought strictly within the compass of our 
knowledge, and that the impulses of resentment or dis- 
appointment, of hasty ignorance and even natural passion, 
should be allowed no place in the formation of our judgment 
of our fellow men. 

To speak the final truth — we are none of us qualified to 

sit in judgment upon one another, and all that we can do is 

263 



264 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



to set down our impressions based on knowledge, and even 
these should be set down with the reservation that they are 
not designed to be more than contributions towards right 
estimates, and in no sense final verdicts. 

Let there, then, be no misunderstanding concerning the 
drift and purpose of this chapter. I desire only to put 
down facts within my own experience, and at the same time 
to express my own views on those later facts which are 
known to the world. In speaking of my experiences I may 
be thought to throw into over-strong relief the attractive 
and good features of the subject : in speaking of the later 
facts I may be blamed for passing to another extreme. 
This, I fear, may be inevitable, but I trust that I shall 
neither set down anything in malice, nor yet, because of the 
warm attachment of other days, appear to condone things 
which ought to provoke just indignation. 

The method which I propose, therefore, is to set out as 
clearly as I can the picture of the man I knew, and the 
traits in his character which did not fail to attract me and to 
awaken an attachment which was genuine and, I think, 
justified. And you, kind reader, will, I hope, understand 
that it could not be my part now or at any time to traduce 
the memory of a friend, even when in bitter disappointment 
I found myself unable to approve or defend his actions. If 
you, therefore, should think that I have dealt with undue 
tenderness at any moment, kindly remember that it is due 
to an affection which memory holds dear, even though now 
the wide estranging sea of difference separates our hearts 
and hopes and purposes. As I write, whatever I may be 
writing — words of censure or words of appreciation — there 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 265 



sounds continually in my heart, like the tolling of a funeral 
bell : " He was my friend." 

My first picture will be one in fair colours, because it is 
painted before the atmosphere clouded and the thick dark- 
ness enveloped us all. It is the picture of the man I knew 
— towards whose life and friendship I was drawn by circum- 
stances. It was in circumstances tinged with sorrow that I 
first met him : it was in circumstances just touched with the 
early clouds of impending storm that I last saw him. In 
the intervening years — twenty- five in number — the links 
which fastened the bonds of friendliness increased in 
strength ; and it would be an unworthy thing in me to 
deny or belittle the growth of affection and of sympathetic 
hope which sprang up in my heart during those years. At 
times I have been tempted, in sheer dismay, to be silent 
altogether ; but I have reflected that, whatever may be the 
darkness which these last years have brought upon his 
reputation and the censures which have been so widespread 
and severe, it is only right that the other side of the picture 
should be shown, and even at the risk of being, perhaps, 
misunderstood, which is easy ; or misrepresented, which is 
not difficult, I ought to put on record the experiences which 
were mine in days when I hoped that the securities of peace 
and the forces which work for the welfare of the world 
would be strengthened and promoted by the influence which 
I knew he could v/ield, and which I had good ground for 
believing that he would wield, for the realization of our best 
ideals. 

Had we not often together indulged in dreams of what 
the world might be under the united influence of those 



266 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



powers which seemed to share common ideals ? Yes, I 
know — I know that other and sinister influences were at 
work, and that the force of brutal and unworthy ideals was 
making itself felt throughout Germany ; but of these evil 
powers we knew nothing. I say " we " : I certainly knew 
nothing of the poisonous teaching which was debasing the 
vision of the German people, and my impression is that 
these influences had not then flowed into the immediate 
home circle of the Emperor. I think that there were 
visions of a noble life, order and influence which rose upon 
his thoughts, held his imagination, and satisfied his soul. 
That there were other and less worthy visions which invaded 
his mind later may be quite true. Every one of us who 
has any knowledge of himself must know that there are 
moments when the lower self seizes upon and draws pictures 
which in our better moments we should repudiate as below 
the call- — the sacred call — of life. 

Understand then, dear reader, that what I am drawing 
now is the picture of what I thought my friend to be, and 
of what I think he genuinely wished to be in the happy 
time before lower influences swept in upon his life and bore 
him away upon a disastrous flood of wrong. 

My first conversation with the Emperor William took 
place at Osborne in 1889. It was in August, during the 
Cowes week, a few months after he had succeeded his 
father. It was a Sunday evening. As Osborne House 
was very full of guests, I stayed with my wife at Canon 
Prothero's. The Queen invited us to dine in the evening. 
After dinner, in the drawing-room the Emperor came across 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 267 



the room and shook hands with me very cordially. He 
placed himself with his back to the door, and with a very 
rapid movement swept one arm behind his back. He com- 
menced conversation by saying that he was pleased to meet 
me, of whom he had heard. This did not give me much 
opening, but as there had been reports of strikes in some 
parts of Germany I asked him if he could tell me how they 
originated. In reply he spoke rapidly and well : he showed 
himself to be acquainted with the details of the strike 
movement and with the conditions which had led up to 
it. He marshalled easily the facts and factors which 
needed to be known if a fair judgment was to be reached. 
He gave details of the geography of the affected districts, 
the racial and religious qualities of the population. The 
strikes in Westphalia he attributed to three causes : first, 
the strong Polish element in the district — a people ignorant 
and fanatical ; he illustrated the difficulties by telling of two 
men who were decapitated for offences — outrage followed 
by murder, " crimes I never forgive." A second cause he 
believed to be the custom which led rich men to leave the 
district as soon as their fortunes were made. The methods 
of these employers of labour seemed to be fairly open to 
criticism. The Poles were ready to work for comparatively 
low wages : fortunes were made, and the emigration of 
those who had made their fortunes left the place in a forlorn 
condition. The third cause was the absence of any Govern- 
ment works in the district. Wherever Government works 
existed the scale of living of the artisans improved : decent 
houses were built. Thus a standard of general comfort and 
respectability was set up, as in Silesia ; but in Westphalia 



268 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



this stimulus to a better condition of things did not exist. 
Hence, partly owing to the character of the population, 
partly to the heedlessness or want of sympathy of the 
employers, and partly to the lack of Government example, 
things were in a bad way, and the population ripe for 
strike. 

The conversation then changed from Germany to Rome, 
which the Emperor had recently visited. He spoke in a 
vivid and interesting way of his reception at the Vatican. 
The Pope read a statement very carefully prepared. Its 
theme was the restoration of Rome to the authority of the 
Pope. The Emperor interrupted the statement, and asked 
how it could be expected that the Protestant Emperor should 
restore it. The Pope paused, made no reply, but continued 
his set speech. Later, the Emperor, raising his voice so 
that all who were present might hear, said : " I tell you that 
if the King of Italy left, the people of Rome would rise 
against you and make the Vatican and its Library national 
property.'' In the view of the Emperor the policy of the 
Pope was to make war between France and Italy, in the 
hope of thus regaining Rome. In such a war Germany 
would be neutral. Speaking of France, the Emperor said : 
"France is the surprise box of Europe. Boulanger might 
come to the front and be emperor — who knows ? " 

He gave me a graphic picture of Windthorst, a man 
much in public view at the time. All through this conver- 
sation I was struck by the mastery of details he showed and 
the fresh and vivid manner of his speaking. 

Early in 1905 I had a letter from Lord Knollys telling 
me that the German Emperor wished that the King would 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 



269 



send a prince, a peer and a prelate to attend the ceremony 
of the dedication or opening of the new cathedral, or Dom 
Kirche, in Berlin, and that he wrote to intimate to me the 
King's wish that I should go to Berlin as the prelate of the 
party. Prince Arthur of Connaught was the selected 
prince, and Lord Churchill the selected peer for the 
occasion. 

Our party reached Berlin soon after seven on Sunday 
morning. A guard of honour met our train, the stalwart 
and imposing troops made the station pavement resound 
with their martial tread. The sight of these men lifting 
their knees up to the level of their navels and bringing their 
feet down with a stunning force had to me an air of musical 
comedy, but comedy spoilt by the deafening echoes which 
their stamping made. Prince Arthur and Lord Churchill 
were taken to apartments in the Schloss. Captain Wyndham 
and I were whisked off to the British Embassy. There I 
was shown to my room, and after the long and dusty journey 
I rejoiced at the opportunity of a bath, feeling that there 
was time to take things quietly, as the only engagement I 
knew of was that of my promise to preach at the English 
church at eleven o'clock. I was proceeding leisurely when a 
knock came to my door, and a voice from without announced 
to me that the Emperor would receive us at half-past nine. 
It was then getting close to nine o'clock. I hastily com- 
pleted dressing. 1 scrambled down to the breakfast-room. 
1 managed to seize some toast and to swallow half a cup of 
coffee. We flung ourselves into the carriage and were 
whirled off to the Schloss, where we arrived for the reception. 
We were shown into a room which bristled with models 



270 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

of ships of war. The sight of these, I confess, startled me. 
1 was not prepared for such a manifestation of marine 
ambition. 

The Emperor came in ; he was very cordial and in high 
spirits ; his quick eye detected something wrong in Captain 
Wyndham's uniform, and he chaffed him about it. As he 
greeted me he said, c< It is a shame first to make the Bishop 
sick and then to make him preach a sermon." The 
suggestion, however, was needless, for we had had a calm 
crossing. Two things were in the Emperor's mind : the 
trouble in store for England through the German action 
against the Jesuits ; those who found things too hard 
in Germany would find refuge in England. The other 
matter was the recent fire in Long Acre, which had destroyed 
some large show-rooms for motor cars. The misfortune 
would be good for German trade. These topics were 
lightly and laughingly touched upon. I was growing 
apprehensive about my engagement in the English Church 
at eleven. However, we were dismissed before long, and 
I had just time to go back to the embassy, to robe and 
to reach the church. 

In the evening I dined with the Emperor at the Schloss. 
There were perhaps forty guests. The party broke up early, 
and I was not sorry to get to bed. The following day, 
Monday, was the day of the great ceremonial which had 
brought us to Berlin. The new cathedral was solemnly 
dedicated. The new building was the first Protestant Dom 
erected in Germany. It cost half a million of sovereigns. 
Its dome rose to a height nine feet greater than St. Paul's. 
It replaced the simple old church, which was erected some 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 271 



hundred and fifty years earlier by Frederick the Great, 
and which had sheltered the remains of the Great Elector, 
of King Frederick I (of Prussia), and King Frederick 
William II. The cathedral had been eleven years in 
building. At the dedication service addresses were given 
by Dr. Dryander and Dr. Kritzinger. " Em' f este Burg " 
was sung between the two addresses and " Nun danket 
alle Gott" was sung at the close. 

The service lasted about two hours. The stately dome 
was filled by a distinguished congregation ; dazzling uni- 
forms were to be seen everywhere, against which the black 
robes and white collars of the Lutheran clergy looked 
sombre. We lunched at the Schloss ; I found myself 
seated between the Grand Duke of Baden and Admiral 
Zechiarias of the Danish Navy. After lunch we attended a 
levee, being first introduced to the Emperor, who, thanking 
me for the little silver clock I had sent in commemoration 
of his silver wedding, said he had never seen one like it. 
The arrival of the clock had caused, I may here mention, 
considerable misgiving among the officials of the palace. 
When the parcel arrived, some suspicious servant detected 
the ticking of the clock. Immediately imagination suggested 
danger. What infernal machine was this which was intro- 
duced to the Imperial abode ? Not till inquiry had been 
made and I had assured them that the parcel only contained 
an innocent clock was the gift handed over to the Emperor. 
The clock was one in which the minutes were marked on 
the pages of a little book. There was a kind of poetry about 
the structure ; an invisible finger turned the pages of the 
record of time. Every minute a tiny page was turned. I 



272 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

had sent it to the Emperor the night of my arrival, and with 
it I had sent the following lines — 

Take, Gracious Sir and Madam, with my rhyme, 
My little gift, a chronicler of time, 
Whose quiet finger, like an ancient sage, 
Doth firmly hold, then turn the frequent page. 
Thus quick and bright, like stars that disappear, 
The passing days have brought the silver year. 
Glad days they were, despite the hours of grief, 
And sweet their tale ; for love did turn the leaf. 
And for the leaves unturned you have no care, 
Nor seek to read the future written there ; 
For God is love, and be life long or brief, 
God marks the days, and He doth turn the leaf. 

But this is a digression anent the little clock, the like of 
which the Emperor said he had never seen. Of course, in 
such a levee, where guests were received one by one, the 
audience was the briefest possible to each. From the 
Emperor's presence we were passed one by one into the 
Empress's audience chamber, and here only a few kindly 
words were spoken. 

In the evening there was a splendid banquet — some 
three hundred guests sat down ; but before the dinner I had 
one of those surprises which fling upon one unexpected 
responsibility. I was in the room where the guests were 
rapidly assembling, when the Emperor appeared ; he came 
to me with an envelope in his hand. This he gave to me, 
saying, " I want you to look at the enclosed. Study it, and 
let me know after dinner what you think of it." The 
envelope contained an analysis of Mr. Houston Chamber- 
lain's book on the Philosophy of Kant, The Emperor said a 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 



few words about it and then left me. Almost immediately 
afterwards the signal was given and the guests streamed 
into the banquet -room — the Weisesaal. We took our 
places. It was a large room panelled with white marble and 
adorned with life-sized statues of the kings of Prussia. 
The guest on my right was an old veteran of the Franco- 
German War, who spoke of the numbers engaged in the 
Russo-Japanese War compared with those who fought in 
1870. He thought that the numbers engaged in some of 
the heaviest battles of the earlier war were about equal to 
those which joined in conflict in the struggle then going on 
in the East. The battle of Mukden had not then been 
fought. During the dinner the Emperor looked down the 
table, and when he had caught my look in response he 
smiled and took wine with me. 

Meanwhile I was anxious to study the letter he had 
given me ; 1 managed to take one or two surreptitious 
glances at it, and this was what I found — 

This author, Mr. Houston Chamberlain, has adopted a most 
ingenious method of defining the character of man in its double 
composition respecting the terrestrial and the religious man in him, 
namely — 

Man (as the bearer of experience) 
Knowledge (Science) Religion 

Nature Liberty 

1 . I 

Understanding Personality 

I I . 

Laws . Prescriptions 

Theoretical reason Practical reason 



Man (as reason). 



274 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

Happily, the analysis told its own tale, and enabled me 
to master the general line of thought which was to be 
discussed. 

The dinner over, the guests were marshalled into the 
long drawing-room — strictly a broad corridor of the castle, 
flanked with pictures. Conversation went on freely as 
groups were formed, and as the evening wore on I worked 
my way towards the doorway through which the Emperor 
must go, as I felt bound to show myself ready to meet his 
wishes and to discuss the problem he had put before me. I 
noticed that he was surrounded by a small knot of Lutheran 
clergymen to whom he was talking with great animation. 
Amid the buzz of conversation I heard the court chamber- 
lain say : " The Empress is getting tired ; I must do some- 
thing." Presently the Emperor moved away towards the 
door. It was then late, after eleven o'clock, and I had 
made up my mind that my presence would be dispensed 
with and the projected discussion postponed ; but it was not 
to be. The Emperor came along, speaking a word here 
and there to his guests. When he came near, he drew me 
with him, saying, " Now, if you want a chat, come and have 
tea with us." Whereupon we passed through several large 
rooms ; in each a guard of honour was stationed, placed 
down the sides of the room ; there was history in their uni- 
forms, and we seemed to pass from the middle of the 
eighteenth century to the dawn of the twentieth ; the 
uniforms of one of the earlier guards recalled the troops 
which might have fought at Dettingen ; the last room was 
made splendid with the white uniforms and glittering orna- 
ments of the Imperial Guard. At length we reached a 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 275 

solid mahogany door through which we passed into a 
spacious and well-furnished library. Here the Emperor 
introduced me to the superintendent of the royal theatres. 
I was interested in the national recognition of the Drama, 
and I took the opportunity of seeking to ascertain the 
method of supporting and encouraging dramatic art in 
Germany. The cost appeared to fall very largely upon the 
Emperors private purse ; he used to contribute something 
to all theatres which were officially recognized as royal, 
whether at Berlin or Hanover or elsewhere. As the con- 
versation then turned on the drama I gave the Emperor a 
brief sketch of a drama which I had written, and as I did so, 
he translated at times for the benefit of the superintendent 
any point or incident which _the superintendent had failed to 
follow. 

Soon, however, the conversation left the drama behind 
and turned upon Biblical criticism. This, the Emperor 
said, had restored to him the reality of Bible characters. 
Instead of being shadowy figures they had become living 
human beings. Abraham, who had been little more than 
the shadow of a shade, was now veritable flesh and blood. 
He described the picture which, helped by the account 
given him by an officer who had travelled in Asia Minor, 
presented Abraham as a powerful sheikh, a man who could 
command some five thousand spears, and whose spacious 
tent could accommodate perhaps five hundred guests. 

There was not much to be said about Mr. Houston 
Chamberlain's views of Kant — indeed, the conversation 
naturally drifted in other directions and took on a more 
serious religious turn. As we were talking, a door behind 



276 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



the Emperor slowly and quietly opened and the face of the 
Empress appeared. The Emperor did not see her ; she 
evidently wished to be unobserved and she withdrew as 
quietly as she came. Her face was the affectionate and 
anxious face of the wife who fears to intrude, and yet fears 
that in his eagerness her husband may overtax his strength. 
The day had been an arduous one for the Emperor. 
Personally, as we talked I felt my powers of attention 
beginning to flag through sheer fatigue. Only the wonder- 
ful readiness and fascinating camaraderie of the Emperor 
made one forget fatigue in the vivacity and interest which 
he brought into the conversation. 

It was long after midnight when we reached the British 
Embassy, where the kind and thoughtful hospitality of 
Sir Frank Lascelles compensated for all our fatigue. 

Here is a little story of the Emperor. If it could be 
read without the pressure of perplexity which the war has 
brought upon our judgment, it would be read as a happy 
record of kindly thought and sympathy. Perhaps even 
now it may be read as disclosing another view of a character 
which bewilders us with its inconsistencies. 

Some years ago the Emperor was cruising in the neigh- 
bourhood of Sicily. He recalled to his mind a very beau- 
tiful garden, which he wished to visit again and to show to 
some of his officers. He landed and asked permission to 
see the garden. The lady of the house came to receive the 
Emperor. She had been left a widow since the Emperors 
previous visit. The party, however, went round the garden. 
As they walked among the beauties of the place, the Emperor 
saw that the effort she was making to entertain them was too 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 



277 



much for the lady. When he perceived this, he turned to 
her and said, " You don't want us here : it is too much for 
you : we must go away." The kind words and the kindly 
sympathy overpowered the lady : the bulwark of her self- 
restraint gave way. As she burst into tears the Emperor 
led her to a bench near at hand. They sat down, and the 
poor lady told the burden of anxiety which lay heavy on her 
heart. Her husband had not been a strict observer of the 
outward forms of religion. The widow's heart bore, besides 
the weight of her loss, an added anxiety : with her sorrow 
mingled a dread concerning her husband's fate : the religious 
advisers round about her had spoken hard and harsh words : 
in their view the husband was one upon whom a dark and 
eternal doom had fallen. To the poor, broken, bruised and 
bewildered heart, the Emperor spoke the gospel of divine 
love : he combated the terrors which a superstitious and 
cold-hearted theology had aroused : the words of a better 
hope, based upon the love which never fails, fell like refresh- 
ing dew upon that suffering soul. Thus, in the middle of 
a holiday excursion an opportunity of helping a sorrowing 
fellow-creature came in his way, and in thought and sym- 
pathy the Emperor was ready to minister to the heartbroken 
woman. 

I heard the story from the Emperor's lips. It was told 
with simplicity, without a scintilla of egotism : it was recited 
only as an illustration of the hard and cold teaching which 
prevailed in some quarters and which seemed to ignore the 
amplitude and tenderness of divine love. 

In putting together these reminiscences it is by no means 
my aim to make finished studies of any whom I have met. 



278 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



The hour for such finished studies has not come. At the 
best we, can only make approximate guesses at the true 
character, even of our most intimate friend. If the heart 
nearest our own fails to follow the reason of our smile and 
of our sigh, it follows that a just view of human character 
is almost wholly beyond human range of measurement. We 
may know a little : we may infer a little : we may guess or 
imagine a great deal ; but when we have done all there are 
depths in the human soul which we cannot fathom. Every 
man is finally a mystery to his brother man. God alone, 
who knows all, can measure all, and His judgment will be 
more merciful because more just, and more severe because 
more merciful than the fierce and faulty judgments of men. 
David, when the prophet proposed to him three choices of 
the judgments which should fall upon him, replied with the 
condition, " Let me not fall into the hand of man." Better 
and more tolerable was the judgment of God. Our Lord 
would have us judge nothing before the time ; and however 
much we may be tempted to pass judgment upon one who has 
disturbed the peace of Europe and let loose the fierce beast 
of war in our day, it is still not for us to attempt to deter- 
mine the ultimate and unerring verdict which will hereafter 
be given on his character. All that I can do is to set down 
some of the Emperor William's utterances, and leave to those 
who read to harmonize them or otherwise with the theories 
they have formed of his character. 

I set down here a few extracts from his letters. They 
will serve to illustrate some traits which are not widely 
known. They touch on matters of family feeling, religious 
conviction, and political ideals. Under ordinary circum- 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 



stances some of these quotations would not have been made: 
they would have been reserved for private or later record. 
But the war has altered conditions, and it cannot be said 
that any of the following extracts are likely to increase any 
existing prejudice against the Emperor. To me it seems 
that their publication here and now may lead some people 
to ask themselves whether their judgment has not been 
formed on partial knowledge. The conclusions to which I 
myself have come I shall reserve till later. For the present 
I must let the following extracts, which will follow, speak for 
themselves. 

It will, however, be well to recall, as a kind of preface, 
the immediate circumstances which led to our interchange 
of letters. 

In 1 90 1 I was brought more closely into contact with 
the Emperor. In that year the Empress Frederick died. 
She had expressed to me some of her last wishes, 1 and de- 
sired that the English Burial Service might be used. When 
her death took place, it appeared that others had not known 
of her wishes. I was, happily, able to say definitely what 
she had wished. I went over to Germany by the Emperor's 
wish, as I have told in my former volume, and the sacred- 
ness of the occasion forged another link in the friendly 
character of my acquaintance with the Emperor. On my 
arrival at Homburg I had an interview with him at the 
Schloss. He spoke of his early home life, of phases of 
religious thought which his mother had experienced, of 
the days when her mind inclined to free-thinking, and of 
his ignorance of the later phases of her religious thought. 
1 See my former volume, Some Pages of My Life, p. 305 , 



28o FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



We spoke of the divergent forms in which the religious 
spirit expressed itself. He agreed that the spirit was more 
than the letter. I said that I thought individuality in men 
demanded or could only accept religion in some form which 
appealed to it, and that consequently we must expect that 
there would be varieties of form, even when the faith was 
the same. I cited Alfred de Musset's line — 

" Mon verre n'est pas grand, mais je bois dans mon verre" — 

and I reminded him that our Lord used water as the image 
of the faith. " Yes," he said, " water, clear as crystal." 

The same evening, at six o'clock, we had the English 
service in the Friedrichshof : the Emperor and all the 
members of the family were present. When the service 
ended, the Emperor knelt for a few moments in silent 
prayer by his mother's coffin : against his mourning dress 
the red, white and blue of the Union Jack, which covered 
the bier, stood out in strong contrast. The German 
Funeral Service was held on the Sunday (August n). 
After the service I went to Friedrichshof and saw the 
Emperor. He told me that he had spoken to the King, 
and had his leave to offer me a decoration. I thanked 
him, but said I hoped he knew that love had brought me. 

A few months later, in January 1902, I had a letter 
from the Emperor, in which he referred to the sad days at 
Cronberg. He referred to those awful August days when 
the beloved mother was removed after the most terrible and 
hard-fought battles Heaven ever sent man to fight. " It 
was," he said, " an awful year : to think I had to attend at 
the passing away of dear grandmamma and my mother — 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 281 



mother and daughter, two great queens, each in her way. 
But I am thankful to the Lord that I was able to live 
with them, and hope that I shall never be unworthy of 
them." 

It is pleasant to find this note of grateful remembrance 
and reverent affection in the letter. 

Other letters followed, and the correspondence between 
us was fairly regular up till January 19 14. 

The traits of character disclosed by these letters may be 
grouped under three headings, viz. : personal affection or 
attachment, religious conviction, and ideals of peace for the 
world. 

A warm heart and a generous capacity for friendship, and a 
ready appreciation of the good qualities of others are seen in 
these letters. One or two illustrations will suffice. Thus 
on the death of the late King Edward, after saying, as I 
have already quoted (p. 244) that 

King Edward represented the incarnation of the 
fine qualities of his countrymen — Britain in mourning 
him mourns herself — 

he continued — 

My heart yearns to be with my Aunt and King 
George and his family to help them to carry this awful 
burden and to assist them through the trying hours. . . . 
May God help us all ; His will be done. 

His experience had led him to value simple and un- 
affected friendship, and to dislike and distrust the empty 
and conventional amiabilities met with in fashionable circles. 
He hated social insincerities, and quoted with approval 



282 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



Emerson's words : " I much prefer the company of plough- 
boys and tin-pedlars to the silken and perfumed amity, 
which only celebrates days of encounter by a frivolous 
display, by riches in a curricle and dinners at the best 
taverns." " This," the Emperor says, tC ought to be brought 
home to the young generation of to-day when one sees the 
way they treat poor friendship. Friendship is like a musical 
problem. " Two friends are and ought to be like two instru- 
ments of music equally tuned, touch the one and the other 
will respond in the same key." (March 1908.) 

The letters show a strong family affection and a yearning 
to realize a genuine and unartificial friendship. Blood-ties 
were much to him. When he found himself on English 
soil, he felt himself at home, and his spirit quickly responded 
to the generous affection which met him. " I am so glad to 
be here again " (the words are written from Windsor), " and 
most touched and grateful for all kindness shown to us by 
everybody." The date is November 1907. 

Religious convictions show themselves in these letters, 
and if I am not mistaken, their expression suggests a deep 
and truly spiritual grasp. They are not doctrinaire or 
speculative ; they breathe a spirit of personal and practical 
conviction. 

His wish is that the personal communion of the soul 
with Christ were more widely understood. This, I take it, 
is the meaning of the following aspiration — 

Would that mankind learnt to appreciate the 
Saviour's personality more. (December 1907.) 

That I have interpreted rightly the underlying thought 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 



^3 



of these words will be clear, if I am not mistaken, when 
we place other utterances alongside it. Thus he writes in 
1910— 

The discussion about Christ is very animated here 
just now . . . spiritual and religious questions are on 
the platform, showing that there is a thirst and seeking 
for light. Thank God ! 

Or, again, referring to a book which brought out the 
happy intercourse of our Lord with men, he writes — 

That is a manner which must appeal to the most 
dull -minded and dull-souled person alive. The 
person of the Lord is humanly brought into con- 
tact with you, so to say, on a level with you as 
never before, and then by a clever description of the 
psychological changes through which the Saviour passes 
during; His work at a soul, He slowly rises from out 
His worldly brothers, etc., and soars high above them, 
the Son of God, but the Saviour at the same time. 
(January 1909.) 

Or, take this intimate self-revelation — 

Often moments come when in a dilemma of 
choice I was at a loss how to act, and fell back upon 
His (Christ's) admonitions. I chose His side. The 
result was not what I anticipated, even the contrary. 
But then what feeling of hope and trust even in the 
adversest of moments pervades you, " the conviction of 
having done right, of having a good conscience," and 
thereby feeling Him on your side. Also in distress, 
what a start to lean upon. (December 1906.) 

We can readily see how a little grain of self-deception 
may enter into the kind of choice here spoken of, and what 



284 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



a harvest of spiritual blundering may ensue. Nevertheless, 
the spirit which seeks to express itself here is not that of 
affectation or insincerity ; it is the language which a genuine 
Christian soul has often used. The conviction of the real 
guidance which the Lord gives to His single-minded dis- 
ciple is always breaking out in these letters. He finds 
pleasure in a book sent to him, because this aspect of 
Christ's work is given prominence. 

It (the book) corresponds to my mode of thinking 
and is very attractive by the able manner with which it 
shows the marvellous and versatile way in which the 
Lord takes a soul in hand, revealing His talent in the 
knowledge of man, and the victorious power He wields 
over their souls. (March 1910.) 

How genuinely he rejoices in any sign of religious 
movement among his people. Thus, in the letter just 
quoted, he tells how a professor " in public lectures had 
started the idea that Christ never existed." He tells what 
followed. The next Sunday " over 20,000 people stood 
before the cathedral and the palace, hats off, singing 
Luther's thundering war-hymn, ' Ein' feste Burg ist unser 
Gott,' and even now the churches are crammed by people 
craving to hear about the Saviour." 

He longs to see the fire of religious fervour spreading 
among the people through a strong personal grasp on what 
was once called experimental religion. He will do all he 
can to encourage such a spirit. 

I shall do everything in my power ... to fan 
the flame of a fire of which the Lord Himself said, " I 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 285 

have come to kindle a fire upon earth " ; I wish it was 
already aflame. (January 19 14.) 

Alas ! it was another fire which, seven months later, the 
Emperor allowed to be kindled among the nations. 

Naturally, in the light of present events the Emperor's 
utterances about peace will prove the most interesting ; and, 
as a fact, the subject which is more touched upon than 
any other in these letters is the subject of peace. It will, 
perhaps, set forth his views more graphically if his words on 
this question are placed in chronological order. I propose 
to quote the passages selected without interpolating any 
comment ; thus their cumulative value will be best felt. 

The first extract bears date January 17, 1905 ; it is as 
follows — 

It seems to me that the principles laid down in 
the Christmas Evangile are not well-respected in these 
latter years, and that we are still far from Peace on 
Earth and good will among men. If one has till now 
managed to assure peace to one's own country, one 
must be very thankful to Providence, and pray that no 
one else may arise to disturb it or break it, and do 
everything in one's power to keep one's own sheep 
from flying at each other within the fold. 

The second touches on the relations between Germany 
and England ; its date is December 27, 1906 — 

My wishes are sincere and warm for you and 
for your country for 1907. Quod bonum, felix, 
faustumque sit populis Anglicis et Germanicis. 



286 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



The next I give deals with the difficulties which beset 
diplomatists in 191 3, the year before the war broke out. 
The date is January 5, 19 13 — 

I need not assure you that I am working with the 
utmost energy to try and secure Peace for the world. 
The task is arduous and necessitates patience, as the 
Powers, though in principle are all agreed to preserve 
Peace, yet some of them have their back thoughts and 
clandestine ambitions not always in harmony with 
peaceful issue. However that may be, I don't despair, 
feeling as I do that I am working at the bidding of a 
Higher Power, who said, " Be ye content with My 
grace ; My power is strong in the weak : " and as my 
work is for the good of mankind. 

My last interview with him was in June 19 13. I went 
to Berlin to offer him a congratulatory address on the 
twenty-fifth year of his accession. The Archbishop was 
unable to go, and by his wish I was invited to accompany 
the deputation, which represented an Alliance of Christian 
Churches on behalf of friendly relations between the two 
countries. They were busy days. Berlin was crowded ; 
the length of the Unter den Linden was brave with banners 
and flags ; happy-faced people jostled one another in friendly 
fashion on the pavement ; gay uniforms flitted about the 
streets. There was a State performance at the Royal Opera 
House ; the house was brilliant with flowers ; festoons of 
green and pink flowers adorned the upper galleries ; the 
lower gallery was gorgeous with rich red flowers, which rose 
into a bank in front of the Emperor's seat. The perform- 
ance was one act out of Lohengrin ; after the performance 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 287 



there was a reception at which I met many friends. It is 
sad to recall them now, as, perhaps, never again in this world 
shall we meet. I had no word with the Emperor that night, 
but on the Monday after the State banquet in the Weisegaal, 
the Emperor sent for me. He was quite cordial, but he 
spoke with a note which was new to me ; it was no longer 
the note of hope and joyous anticipation ; he seemed to me 
to be apprehensive ; he spoke of the dangerous position in 
which Germany was placed between two powers which under- 
stood one another and might prove hostile. When I left 
him, I felt that the Emperor v/as under the influence of a 
great fear. " He is changed," I said to myself. 1 was afraid ; 
for I knew that there was no passion so cruel as fear. 
Fear blinds the judgment and hardens the heart. tc Their 
eyes will be blinded through the fear of their hearts," wrote 
an ancient seer (Enoch xlix. 8, 9). It was a curious ex- 
perience after the words of hope which had been uttered in 
addresses presented to the Emperor from various bodies. 
Most of them cherished the dream of a peaceful Europe, and 
regarded the Emperor's influence as a factor powerful to 
secure it. 

We left Berlin, our memory of it as of a bright, happy 
and hopeful city ; its citizens thriving and vying with each 
other in their loyalty to the Emperor. I may never set foot 
in it again, but I hope to live till the day when the victorious 
armies of the Allies pass under the Brandenburg gate, 
and make plain to the German people by a triumphal 
march through the Unter den Linden that the days of 
Prussian militarism and Prussian domination and Teutonic 
treachery are at an end. 



288 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



In conclusion I can only say that it is hard to write when 
one's heart is sore with the sense of bitter disappointment. 
It is perhaps impossible to write with absolute justice of any 
of our acquaintances. There is such a large area of the soul 
of man which lies concealed from all but God. Neverthe- 
less, I may be allowed to set down my thoughts, I hope, 
without prejudice, and certainly without malice. My 
thoughts, if I let my heart speak, would run in this fashion. 
I knew him ; I thought I knew him well ; he was so frank 
in speech and manner that it was natural to believe that he 
spoke from the sincere emotions of the moment. I knew 
him, and 1 had learned to feel for him a deep and genuine 
affection. So free and unrestrained had been our intercourse, 
and so ready was he to respond to one's best and inmost 
thoughts that there was nothing about which I should have 
hesitated to speak. He sent for me to speak with him as 
opportunity arose ; he often wrote to me, and his letters 
covered a large range of subjects — from some discovery 
throwing light on Biblical archaeology to a new book on 
Kant's philosophy ; from a new process in photography to 
questions of European peace ; from a happy family event 
to the significance of certain aspects of spiritual experience. 
He wrote to me often ; his letters and telegrams treat of a 
variety of subjects ; they create — I think that they would 
do so in the mind of any impartial reader — they create an 
impression of absolute sincerity ; they negative the idea of 
being letters written to lull suspicion or to conceal some 
sinister purpose. Briefly, I knew him, and I had learned to 
love him well. I saw him as the emperor of a great and 
prosperous people, devoted and rightly devoted to their 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 289 



welfare ; he was alive to his duties to his own country and 
keen to discharge those duties well. He was nevertheless, 
in spite of his sense of Teutonic responsibility, happy when 
chance brought him within the congenial atmosphere of 
English life. He found a genuine pleasure in being on 
English soil, in meeting English friends, and in follow- 
ing English ways. It seemed as though then the spirit of 
his English ancestry woke and he felt a strong home feeling 
when he breathed English air. Then the ideals consonant 
with such surroundings rose before him as the noblest, the 
purest, the best. And those ideals were not those of war 
and conquest, but of a friendship which, made strong by 
kinship in blood and faith, might work for the maintenance 
of European peace and for the general good of mankind. 
Nor ought it to be forgotten that in coming over to England 
when the monument to Queen Victoria was unveiled he 
encountered a strong adverse current of German opinion. 
By paying this homage of affection to the grandmother 
whom he loved and the empress-queen whom he honoured 
and admired, he risked his popularity in his own country. 

But these were not the only influences at work. There 
was always the steadily applied power of the military party — 
strong and increasing in strength through the foolish pride 
of the Prussian aristocracy, who knew no occupation worthy 
of their sons save that in the army. There was the ready 
intrigue of those officials who sought to force the Emperor's 
hand by occasionally contriving to make him unpopular by 
representing him as too much the friend of England ; there 
was the resentment of the populace at some diplomatic 

failure, as the Morocco fiasco ; there was the sinister influence 
u 



2 9 o FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



of the irresponsible Crown Prince, who sought to make up 
by partisan popularity what he lacked in capacity and 
character, and there was the growing apprehension, carefully 
fostered by the war party, that dangerously hostile peoples 
were vigilant and menacing the flanks of the empire ; there 
was the dream of conspicuous conquests, which might carry 
Germany to the pinnacle of world-greatness, and lift its 
emperor to a throne loftier than' any of which Bismarck 
dreamed. It is possible for the human soul to cherish con- 
tradictory dreams, and to feel the influence of inconsistent 
ideals. Every man's character is ultimately the resultant of 
a contest between a lower and a higher spirit. This fact, 
which is so often forgotten, explains why it is that men are 
often such mysteries to one another. We are compelled, 
when we consider the story of any great or conspicuous 
personage, to acknowledge that a clear and full understand- 
ing of him is beyond us. It is, perhaps, not too much to say 
that we must leave such among the unsolved enigmas of 
history. 

One thing I would deprecate — the spirit which dresses 
up a character only in one suit of clothes. The lesser 
dramatists have sometimes given us their hero in this fashion. 
There is no change of suit. Tamerlane is always resolute 
to have might and to use it : he knows no hesitation. We 
say he is a strong character — yes, but is he a character at 
all ? Is he not rather an embodied representation of one 
quality only ? Human beings are medleys as a rule. The 
cruel man is kindly at times : the strong man has his weak- 
nesses, and the weak man his times of strength. To picture 
a man as Mephistopheles, set on evil and deliberately mask- 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 291 



ing his unswerving purpose of evil by a show of good or of 
religion, is not to draw a human being but a devil. In all 
of us there is an admixture of good and evil. Our dreams 
are sometimes of being really very good — kind, generous, 
humble, active in service and patient in suffering. At other 
times the desire of some material gain will seize upon us, 
and we become mean and hard. Sometimes the vision of 
a generous life is ours, at other times the wish to die rich 
masters us. Our course is being constantly deflected from 
its true orbit by external influences ; but more than this 
may be the case. We may form rival and contradictory 
ideals, and according to our mood both may in turn assert 
their supremacy over us. 

With these facts in mind I can well imagine that, to a 
man in the Emperor's position and with his sensitive tem- 
perament, the ideal of living and dying as the monarch who 
had preserved peace to the world may well have seemed 
to him at times the desirable thing, and that often this 
ambition ruled his policy and his action. This is no idle 
speculation : official correspondence confirms the view by 
telling us that the Emperor's disposition was towards peace. 
As examples we may take the following — 

Lieut.-Col. Serret (Military Attache to the French Em- 
bassy at Berlin) writes, on March 15, 1913 : "Germans 
wish for peace — so they keep on proclaiming, and the 
Emperor more than any one." 1 The Emperor's declara- 
tions were regarded by the French officials as genuine. 
M. Stephen Pichon (Foreign Minister) received a confi- 

1 Diplomatic Correspondence published by the French Government, 
p. 4. 



292 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



dential report, dated July 30, 19 13, in which twice over 
the Emperor's influence is spoken of as a force in favour of 
peace — the Emperor's c< pacific disposition," the " will of 
the Emperor," are referred to in the dispatch, and it is 
concluded that Germany will not declare war in view of 
defensive alliances and the "tendencies of the Emperor." 1 
And in the letter from M. Jules Cambon (French ambas- 
sador at Berlin, November 22, 19 13), in which he says the 
Emperor is no longer the friend of peace, he comments 
on the change as being a surprise, since all the world 
thought that the Emperor, " whose personal influence had 
been exerted on many critical occasions in support of peace, 
was still in the same state of mind." 2 There is evidence 
in the diplomatic view of things that the Emperor had, 
in practical action, followed the ideals of peace. 

But it is quite consistent with the existence of this ideal 
that other visions less worthy may have, at times, flashed 
before his mind : the man who sees the vision of handing 
down to posterity his name as a Peace-making and Peace- 
keeping sovereign may, at times, dream of the dazzling 
glory of conquest, or of making his country a praise in the 
earth. And there were not wanting influences which made 
such a dream attractive, or which, at times, seemed to coerce 
him to play the role of war king, and to rattle the sabre to 
please the pride of the nation. The Berlin Foreign Office 
was not above unworthy intrigues to force the Emperor to 
seek popularity or avoid public resentment by posing as 

1 Diplomatic Correspondence published by the French Government, 
pp. 16, 17, and 20. 

2 Ibid., p. 21; cf. also p. 22. 



THE EMPEROR WILLIAM 



war lord rather than as peace-loving monarch. The mili- 
tary party were ready to work upon his fears and to flatter 
him with cheap prophecies of success : the shallow popu- 
larity of the Crown Prince, who " flattered the passions of 
the Pan-Germans," who was the victim of foolish and 
unreflecting ambitions, and who, having lost the respect of 
the worthy, desired to rehabilitate his forfeited reputation 
by appearing as the champion of his country's greatness, 
may have awakened a natural jealousy, which might provoke 
the wish to prove his own energetic patriotism. 

These influences cannot have been without effect upon 
a man of his " impressionable nature." Their combined 
force may well have put new and attractive colouring into 
the vision of lower glory which arose in competition with 
the nobler dream of peace. That nobler dream appealed to 
his best nature ; it was strongest in him when he was upon 
British soil, and when the British ideals were clearer in his 
mind, or when the inner claims of religion were making 
themselves felt, and the vision of a world won by Christ 
rose before his soul. 

In the end the power of the lower vision prevailed : 
mixed motives and varied influences gave it potency. A 
mistaken patriotism, mingled with an unworthy jealousy, 
and driven into activity under the pressure of a genuine fear 
of the growing power of the nations on both flanks, led him 
to surrender his best principles of action to the unhappy 
opportunism which was preached, in season and out of season, 
by a restless military party and by a disloyal and unscrupulous 
Foreign Office. 

The parting of the ways came and he chose the lower 



294 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

path, and commenced that downward career which was the 
sorrow of his friends and will be the overthrow of that 
empire which his grandfather and Bismarck built up with 
such care. 

And this is the pity of it all : he might have been so 
great. He might have left to history the record of a reign 
which had done good to the world, and at the same time 
conferred glory and prosperity on his own country ; but 
now for all time he will be known as the man who was 
chiefly responsible for the wickedest war ever waged, for the 
awful carnage, for the world-wide sorrow, and for the sad 
alienation of hearts which it has brought in its train. For 
one fact stands out clear and certain to all who read the 
official correspondence : a word from the Emperor in those 
critical July and August days of 19 14 would have made 
war impossible, and that word was not spoken. 



V 



THE GREATER FRIENDSHIP 



I wonder whether I can tell the story of a wonderful 
friendship which has been mine, and which lies, like the 
scenery of the stage, unchanged, behind the busy activities 
and entrances and exits of the actors. It has been like the 
sky, which is always there, no matter what scenes have been 
enacted below. It has been like my own identity — some- 
thing which is the same, whether my years were few or 
many. I can hardly tell when it began, but it must have 
been when I was very young that I first became aware of 
this friendship — not that I called it or could have called 
it friendship, for I was too young to know what friendship 
meant ; but nevertheless early, very early, the feeling of 
a comradeship to which I might turn came to me. 

One of the tests of friendship is the power to with- 
draw one's presence at fitting times : to be sensitive to the 
inopportune moments of life. Herein this friend showed 
his true friendliness : he was never intrusive. He never 
spoke of his friendship : he was never eager or forward to 
assert it : he never put forward absurd or impossible claims 
upon my attention or my regard : he was dexterously self- 
effacing. 

Can I ever tell the story of this marvel-working friend- 
ship ? There are associations with our fellow-men which 
we sometimes out of politeness speak of as friendships 

295 



296 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



— saying with an odd carelessness, " Oh yes, he is an 
old friend of mine." There are other comradeships 
more close and intimate, allowing of confidences in hours 
of perplexity, when long experience tells us we can trust 
the companion tried through many years. And yet, and 
yet, is there in these friendships no neutral ground — a 
territory which your friend can never enter ? There are 
rooms in the soul to which such friends are strangers. Is 
it not so ? 

But, therefore, all the more I wonder whether I can 
tell the tale of a friendship which passed beyond all these, 
and which crowned my life with a comradeship which grew 
into a friendship and which surpassed all the intimacies 
of other companionships. As I contemplate it now with 
seventy-five years of life behind me, I am filled with wonder 
at the way this friendship grew. I did not seek it. I might 
say that it was thrust upon me, but that word would con- 
tradict the reticence, the delicate reserve, which marked this 
friendship. 

iC Thine own friend and thy father's friend, forsake 
not," wrote the wise man of the East, and as I look back 
upon this friendship which so gently and gradually disclosed 
itself to me, I feel that though it was always personal to 
me, yet that it was, at least in spirit, an inherited friendship. 
It came with a kind of unspoken assurance that it was no 
new thing, sprung suddenly upon my life : it did not come 
with one of those violent fascinations which create a fast 
and furious friendship of a few months, and end in the 
regret of confidences given and secrets told which had been 
more wisely withheld. It came as a thing which grew — 



THE GREATER FRIENDSHIP 297 



like an unnoticed bit of rusty green, unrecognized as a 
flower, developing with subtle and unobserved quietness, so 
that though not welcomed and made much of, it yet became 
so much a thing accepted that, had it gone, it would have 
been missed. 

And one feature there was about this friendship : it was 
not, as I have hinted, intrusive, but it was always there. 
It was like an unused and unappreciated sea-wall, which 
never hears its praises sung but which stands steadfast, 
reaching its protecting arm as a shelter to the ships which 
are anchored in the harbour. 

But this kind of image is too passive : it fails to 
express the activity, as it were, of this wonderful friend- 
ship ; for it often brought me unsought help. The silent 
friend who had joined his life to mine, yet never intruded 
his friendship, seemed sometimes to move alongside me 
and say, u You need me now : I am here to help." Look- 
ing back, I feel that this was always his tone to me, but 
as he sweetly left me unembarrassed by his presence, I did 
not always realize how near and prompt was his help. 
So for long this friendship was one of watchfulness and 
readiness for service — a friendship which was ready to give 
and asked nothing in return. 

Who, looking back upon his life, is not often ashamed 
to recall how eagerly the friends of the passing hour were 
welcomed and feted, while the dear old friend, whose 
features had grown so familiar that we thought no more 
of his presence than we did of the clock on the mantel- 
piece, or the hatstand in the hall, has been left ungreeted, 
and has taken no offence, but has mingled among the 



298 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



guests, doing to one and another some little service which 
we as hosts had omitted. 

Friendship ! Yes, we often measure it by the gay 
hours of laughter which we have spent together. The 
little cosy dinner at some choice restaurant, followed by 
the two or three- hours at the play when we felt drawn 
towards one another by the physical comfort and pleasant 
enjoyment of the passing hour. But these things do not 
fill the requirements of our hearts when we think of 
friendship. We know other moods than those which smiling 
hours bring us. What about the hours when we take 
ourselves to task, and though we would fain shake off 
the troublesome power within which tells us that we have 
fallen below ourselves ? W^hat friend comes to us in such 
hours ? and what would he say ? Do we want some 
one who bids us give no heed to the voice of self-reproach ? 

! yes, we often listen to such friends, and we are inclined 
to accept their oracular sedatives ; but when they are gone, 
and we are again alone, do We not know that we repudiate 
their counsel ? 

Here, again, was the wonder of that friendship. Silent 
and near at hand, the friend who never intruded upon my 
privacy, seemed to me to judge of matters concerning 
which my heart was in debate. He spoke no word, but 

1 knew that he could not speak flattering words, and still 
less words of untruth. So from his very silence there 
would come counsel, and I knew that, unlike lighthearted 
friends, he believed in me, and in the greatness of the 
future which awaited me, after a fashion which to other 
friends was impossible. 



THE GREATER FRIENDSHIP 299 



How weak and foolish we sometimes are in our inter- 
course with one another ! we seek to please when we 
should seek to help. The baser self prompts us to accept 
the words which give pleasure ; but I think in our hearts 
we often long for the words which will help, even though 
they do not please us. So as I try to measure this great 
friendship of my life, I know that this quiet, self-repressive 
friend never fell into the weakness which sought only to 
please. His grave face and silent lips would often pass 
on to me the message of true helpfulness ; and before me 
would rise the vision of some nobler thing before which 
all base things were condemned. 

There came a time when my heart asked more of this 
quiet friend. I felt that I wanted this friendship to become 
one of closer confidence. Was it always to be a silent 
friendship ? If the present footing of friendship was to be 
changed for one of friendly converse, which of us was to 
begin it ? Hitherto I had been heedless and he had been 
silent. Should I break the silence or would he ? Even 
if I began : would he respond ? So I abode in doubt, for, 
let me confess it, a certain awe possessed me. His very 
silence, his unobtrusive watchful presence, filled me with 
a sense of his greatness ; and awe kept me silent. 

But this could not continue. We had reached a stage 
of comradeship when more was wanted ; and for this my 
heart began to hunger. I made some fugitive efforts to 
cultivate converse ; and there were moments on the road 
of life when in low tones he would speak wonderful things ; 
and as he spoke I saw how life opened the possibility of 
greater things. And I think that it was his converse which 



300 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



led me to tread, not the path I had marked out for my- 
self, but another, which in the years before I had never 
contemplated. He said to me, " There is a path which 
can gratify desire, but there is a path in which you can 
be helpful the choice is before you, and the choice must 
be your own/' And so it came to pass, chiefly, I think, 
because I feared to fread the path of my desire, I chose 
the path he spoke of ; for I had learned to trust him, 
and 1 did not trust myself. Thus the whole scope and 
prospect of my life was changed. I cannot say that any 
new enthusiasm possessed me for the path which was then 
chosen. It was perhaps a dread of following my own wish, 
a fear lest I should be swallowed up in the lower ambitions 
of life : it was a choice made by my will under the influence 
of the will of a friend whom I had learned to trust, 
and whose friendship was becoming more distinctly personal 
to me. 

And about this time I can trace a real intercourse 
between this strange, silent friend and myself. I would let 
loose the thoughts and emotions of my heart to him : I was 
filled with the persuasion of his sympathy. Thus, though 
our comradeship was still that of two silent friends, yet 
there were occasions on which I was constrained to break 
the silence, for my desires were for a companionship in 
which no reserves were practised. I was drawn more and 
more to him, and often I was led to think that he held 
aloof from me. Thus, though at first this friend came to 
me as a comrade when I had not sought him, so now the 
positions seemed to be reversed : I was minded to seek him, 
and he did not seek^mc. 

s. at 



THE GREATER FRIENDSHIP 301 

But let it be understood that this feeling that he held 
himself aloof did not make me doubt the stability of his 
comradeship. Still he was constantly at my side : still, 
whenever I was confronted by difficulty, or exposed to 
conflict of any sort, he was at hand : still he, by some 
quiet gesture or by some whispered word, gave me counsel. 
So, with a growing expectation of his guidance, and a grow- 
ing distrust, perhaps, of my own judgment, I lived, taking 
life as it came from day to day. 

Round me there were snares — snares of which men 
freely spoke, though not always speaking of them as snares ; 
and as I look back, I almost wonder that I escaped them ; 
for there was that in me which might readily have taken 
fire, and so have caused me to fall a victim to such snares ; 
yet the protecting comradeship of this friend was a shield 
against such dangers, and this comradeship, joined to a 
happy ignorance on my part, and to a worshipfulness of 
love which I had learned from another, set an atmosphere 
around me which had a power to quench all outside flame. 
Thus I passed unscathed through dangerous days. 

Then love herself came to me in bright and youthful 
guise ; but new companionship, and hours of dear and 
novel friendship, made no difference to the old friendship. 
The old comrade still journeyed with me. As before, 
ready to help, to suggest, to counsel and to protect. Here 
I met with some of the kindest encouragement from him : 
here I learned from both his silence and his speech to rely 
upon him as I had never done before ; for, in these days, the 
little bark of my life was richly laden, and I might well fear 
disaster from stormy seas. Often my heart sank at the 



3Q2 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



prospect of some tempest. My soul misgave me, as I asked 
whether I could hope to bring such argosies to port. Then 
came days in which fortune seemed to beckon me, and I was 
tempted eagerly to go forward at her bidding. Yes, there 
were times in which I might well have sought the help of 
less worthy friends, and followed counsels which, though 
not dishonourable, were yet such as would have affronted 
my self-respect. Pleadings to act with common sense or 
ordinary worldly prudence gave strength to the temptation 
to follow such counsels ; but ever as I turned and looked 
into the face of my long-tried comrade and read in his calm 
and sober aspect his message of quiet confidence, I let all 
lesser and lower counsels pass by me. I judged that I was 
happier, safer and wiser, in cleaving to his unspoken 
guidance. Thus again, as I look back, I see that this dear, 
faithful, comrade-friend saved me by his wisdom from lines 
of conduct which might have planted the bitterness of self- 
reproach in the midst of success. 

I chronicle the tale of this friendship, and I do so in the 
hope that it will make plain the truth that this friend was 
truer to me than those who would have flattered me more, 
or measured out their counsel by my wishes or even my 
interests. Here was the great difference between him and 
others who were kind, that he always thought of what 
would lead me to take the higher path : he always thought 
of that which would make me better rather than that which 
would better my fortune. For this reason my confidence 
in him was never shaken — no, not even when the path he 
pointed out was the path of disappointment. Well I can 
see now that he, out of wisdom and kindness — yes, and 



THE GREATER FRIENDSHIP 



justice too — withheld me from things which perhaps my 
ambition and perhaps my indolence desired. It was as 
though he always said "God's providence is best, and if the 
fear of Him is the beginning of wisdom, trust in Him is 
the path of peace." Thus this friend was sober mentor to 
me ; and so much so, that I longed for freer intercourse 
with him, knowing well that his counsels were strength, 
but ever wishing some deep sympathy, as well as counsel, 
from him. I think this came, or rather that some hint of it 
came, at a later time, when I stood in sore need of help. 
A great and desolating sorrow came upon me : the storm of 
it swept from my embrace the dearest thing that was mine. I 
had to steel myself against over-much indulgence in sorrow, 
and some said, " He is forgetting his grief." What could 
they know ? How could they know the deep, unspoken 
pain of my lonely spirit then ? " Why, O my heart, do you 
not break ? " I had asked myself, speaking to the poor 
beating, bruised and fluttering heart. Hard to bear was the 
cruel bruising of my benumbed and grief-stricken heart. 
So, hearing of this thought of those who did not know, 
but who guessed that 1 was getting over the loss, when it was 
still but three months raw, I wrote, that " my heart seemed 
to me one petrified agony : mine," I said, " is not sorrow, 
it is just suffering, suffering." Outward tears I could not 
shed, but the tears fell inward, filling with bitterness the 
myriad voids in my bruised heart. Yet against the flaming 
grief I had to struggle, and to cry to the storm voices of my 
sorrow, " Peace, peace," for the sake of duty and of others 
who were dear. 

In those days I went about stricken with deafness. The 



3o 4 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 

shock of grief had smitten my hearing. I walked the 
streets : I saw the noisy carts and rattling cabs in their 
courses, but I moved in a silence which might be felt. It 
was in these days that there came to me the melody which 
I heard and in which I found sympathy and comfort. My 
friend still silently kept companionship with me : his foot- 
steps, no doubt, were beside me, though I heard them, or 
heeded them not. But then I heard, as the deaf may hear, 
music more sweet than unstopped ears can hear. I was in 
the noisy roadway, one of the great open thoroughfares of 
London, when I heard it, clear and strong at first, then clear 
and sweet as the voice of a glad soul singing. Did my 
friend say "Listen " ? Somehow it seemed to me that his 
friendship bade me hearken, and then upon my ears, closed 
to the sounds of earth, there stole heavenly music — first as 
a glorious choir, and then as of a single happy voice. I 
heard : I listened, transported : I knew the voice. Had I 
not heard it often during years of sweet fellowship ? The 
grave could not silence that voice, and I, deaf to earth's 
sounds, heard it clear, though the roar of the traffic must 
have been rolling round me. Then I knew that it was 
given to me to hear this clear singing, so that my stricken 
heart might have some message of assurance. Thus, in 
spite of grief, restless, imperious grief, there came into my 
heart the sign of peace, because I had seemed to hear that 
dear voice uplifted among angel voices. I think that my 
quiet comrade so wrought upon me that I was able to hear 
this music and to accept its sweet assurance. 

When I looked upon him his face was still grave, almost 
impressive, and yet I seemed to catch in it some marks of 




[ To face page 304 

THE AUTHOR 

{From a photograph by Lafayette) 



THE GREATER FRIENDSHIP 305 



lingering emotion, as of one whose heart rested content in 
some kindness done. Often, often did I speak to him in 
those days of my sorrow ; my mourning found incessant 
utterance, and pleaded with him for some sympathetic help. 
Many perplexities attended my life at that time. I was 
like one who had to draw forth into power of use a sadly 
entangled ball of string — who makes some vigorous and 
thoughtless effort, draws forth a clear portion, only to find 
that he has drawn the meshes tighter together. 

And my friend ? He might have looked at me with 
good-natured, half-cynical amusement as he marked my 
efforts ; but never once did a smile of contempt or con- 
scious superiority cross his face. Still, as always, his 
countenance was one of kindly gravity and his air that 
of one who waited ready to help. 

And in the end, it was he who unravelled and straight- 
ened out the tangle of my life, and made it possible for me 
to weave its thread for some new pattern. Where I would 
have gone, he kept me from going ; and he held me wait- 
ing till the right and clear path opened. He thrust aside 
a difficulty here, and met obstacles and removed them. 
When I encountered more than one serious hindrance, 
which for a moment seemed menacing, he counselled a 
quiet trust on my part, and he was justified. Others came 
forward, took up the difficulty, removed its menace, finding 
a simple and natural solution. My friend became the 
clearer away of difficulties, and always he maintained the 
same peaceful and calm face, which bore with it an ever- 
present counsel of calmness to me. 

Thus, by degrees, there came into my life quiet and 



306 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



refreshment, and love began to sing in my home once 
more. And he, my lifelong friend, was as before, the 
unfailing comrade of my hours of restored gladness, as he 
had been in hours of stress and sorrow and storm. Ever 
his counsel was : " Do right, and trust. Judge nothing by 
wishes ; judge all things by love and right." And always 
we resolved to follow his bidding. 

Sometimes it was hard, and life's difficulties appeared to 
grow more bewildering as we sought to put right first ; but 
the value of right cannot be tested in a day. It takes time 
to prove its worth and its power.- So we proved it, and I 
think that this, at least, my faithful friend taught me, viz. : 
that he who struggles, doing right, through the dark and 
doubtful day, will find that peace comes with the sundown, 
and light at evening time. 

It is said that if two live or work together, soon one 
will be leader or master and the other follower or pupil. 
I found this to be true in my experience of this friendship, 
for more and more it came to pass that I was learner, and 
he teacher or master. I did not resent this, for life brings 
knowledge, and we soon find that it is well to have some one 
upon whose wisdom we can rely, and whose friendship 
secures that sympathy will work hand in hand with judg- 
ment. Perhaps, then, the best lesson I learned at this time 
from this happy friendship was reliance upon the providence 
of God. I well remember that in this period of my life 
there arose a prospect of my being moved to an independent 
post — or promotion it would be called by some. There 
were many reasons why such a move would have been 



THE GREATER FRIENDSHIP 



acceptable to me. The growing family, and a feeling that 
my association with another in work had been sufficiently 
long, and other thoughts, contributed to make me wishful 
for change. There were weeks of suspense, but my friend 
had taught me that God's providence was always best. In 
those days the collect for the eighth Sunday after Trinity 
was daily used by me. Before I opened the morning letters 
I read or repeated the collect. On the day which brought 
the decision I did so. I saw among the letters the letter 
which, I knew, would tell me the verdict, but I checked my 
anxious curiosity : I read the wise prayer. I opened the 
letter. The verdict was against my wishes and hopes ; but 
the sense that God knew best beat down the pain of dis- 
appointment. So my friend had become strength to me, 
and we learned to look to his guidance, for he led us to 
God, I think. 

But this principle, when used as a governing principle 
of life, may lead to much perplexity. The questions, 
Where does God's providence lead me now? and, What 
course does that providence point out to me ? are questions 
which we cannot always answer. I grant it frankly, and as 
completely as any one will desire. As a fact, there came a 
time when we were anxious — yes, I may say resolved— to 
take no step without being assured that it was allowed or 
indicated by God's providence. The old saying, that he 
that watches providence will never lack a providence to 
watch, or the old Chester house motto, " God's providence 
is mine inheritance," became dominant in our thoughts ; 
and when I turned my inquiring face to the wise comrade- 



308 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



friend who still walked beside me, I heard his voice saying, 
" When you see no right thing to do, do nothing : wait." 
There are times in which the spirit of patient waiting is 
needed in life. And so, in much anxiety, and pressed often 
by needs and bewildering conditions, I had to live by 
patience for many days ; to be more exact, I think it was 
for some four or five years. It was curious to watch how, 
one after another, the conditions of life changed, and slowly 
the obstacles which seemed to bar the road were chased 
away, and at last the path opened straight before me, and 
with its opening there came a new support into my life. 
Even then, though obstacles disappeared, difficulties re- 
mained, and life called for patience— yet more patience ; 
and we, who had home and many affairs to manage, found 
it a happy thing that the quiet and often silent comrade of 
the road was still near and ready to advise. Like the 
husbandman, we have to wait in life with long patience for 
the harvest of our efforts and of our prayers, and ever at 
my side the friend would whisper, " Be patient : in due 
season you will reap, if you faint not." 

How true in thought he was — as true in thought as he 
was tender in sympathy. How true in thought ! Though all 
that I hoped for in patience is not yet seen, yet I have seen the 
flowers grow to fulness of beauty and the cornfields ripen. 
I saw one flower which grew out of the dust, and I watched 
it through many seasons, and my grave friend, who had 
taught me something of the pricelessness of a love which 
can wait and watch with silent patience, began to look at 
me, and though he did not speak, he seemed to say, " You 



THE GREATER FRIENDSHIP 



sec how the flower is changing from one beauty to another." 
He was right : I saw it ; and as the years went by 1 saw it 
gain a beauty which outstripped all dreams of beauty which 
I had formed of it. It grew to be a comely tree, rich with 
an avalanche of flowers, and spreading everywhere a gentle 
and a grateful shade ; like the tree of the gospel, the birds 
of the air would lodge in the branches of it. So sweetness 
and beauty waited on love and patience. 

Then came one of the most piercing and revealing expe- 
riences of my life. A trouble fell upon me. A flower 
which I had planted in my garden, and which I had watched 
with care for many days, had grown into unimagined 
beauty : I call it a flower, but indeed it had become a tree 
laden with fair and fragrant flowers. Like Jonah under 
his gourd, I rejoiced in the beauty, the sweetness and the 
shelter of this loved and cherished growth. Then the 
trouble came : some strange and evil thing began to sap 
away its life : leafage and twig and stem began to droop. 
I hoped that coming spring and summer would bring new 
vigour to my plant. Still with me was my grave and kindly 
friend, and when my heart grew anxious about my loved 
tree, I spoke to him ; and he said, " I can save it, but to its 
own loss." They were mysterious words, but they were 
spoken so clearly that I could not mistake them. I must 
have caught his thought, without, perhaps, translating it into 
full concrete meaning. He seemed to mean that we might 
pay too high a price for keeping what we loved ; and I 
answered, as one whose spirit moves in harmony with the 
spirit of him who speaks, and moved more by spiritual 



3io FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



harmony than by mere words, I cried, " Oh, not that ! " for 
I could not wish other than the highest good to what I 
loved. My disappointment or my loss must not count in 
such a case. 

And so the full trouble fell. The fair, flower-laden tree 
withered away. No more were its beauties there to delight 
my eyes : no more its shelter for me to rest in and rejoice. 
And then came a strange thing. This loss became a revela- 
tion to me. Deprived of the pleasant shade and loveliness, 
as I sought to appease my sense of loss I discovered that I had 
allowed ill weeds to grow up apace. I knew my negligence, 
and never had I felt so dismayed and despondent as I 
walked about and measured and appraised my garden. It 
was as though a heavenly light had fallen, and had disclosed 
the ugly growths which unaware had sprung up. 

My heart was broken and depressed, and a conflict with 
ill weeds fell upon me. I was as a man who had gone on 
content and blind, but who is by some new light bidden to 
see and thereupon becomes discontented. I often looked 
at my grave comrade-friend. He walked with me still, but 
as one who did not see what I saw, or who would not let 
me perceive that he saw. For months, I think, I went 
almost lonely, for though he was always near, his com- 
panionship seemed withdrawn. 

Then one day he spoke, and all was changed. He 
seemed to come nearer to me, and I said, or thought I said, 
" I have learned something. Light has shone straight into 
my heart, and I have seen darkness there — there, where I 
want only light to dwell ; for what is a heart, if it be not 



THE GREATER FRIENDSHIP 311 

one which thrills only to good, instead of responding to ill ? " 
And he said, "None can search out the heart but God only, 
and for this, perhaps, this experience has been yours." So 
as I went I prayed, " Cleanse the thoughts of my heart " ; 
and then sweet music broke upon my ears : a choir was 
singing, as if it would give expression to my thoughts ; 
and the words they sang were the words of the psalmist, 
c< Try me, O God, and search my heart : try me and 
examine my thoughts. Look well if there be any way 
of wickedness in me, and lead me in the way everlasting. " 
Then with a threefold " Amen " the music ceased, and my 
comrade-friend was at my side ; and he spoke : " It will be 
well with you." c< It will be well with you " : and then, as 
I thought what this might mean, he said, softly yet clearly, 
one word — " Victory." 

I cannot explain all that he meant, for this is a record 
of experience, and explanations of experience must wait 
often for fuller light. This, however, was certain : I felt 
that my grave friend had drawn much nearer to me, and I 
thought that the friendship of years might grow into one of 
sweet intimacy. And sometimes it has : then I have known 
a satisfaction of spirit which compensates for a hundred 
disappointments : then I have been lifted above the lower 
environment which seems to hamper our freedom. The 
gladness of such moments has been exhilarating and, I am 
tempted to say, all-sufficing ; but such moments are rare in 
all friendships. 

Love is the bond of friendship, but it needs not to 
be paraded in words, and seldom indeed did we speak of 



3i2 FURTHER PAGES OF MY LIFE 



love as a power below our friendship. Once, I think, he 
asked, " Do you love me ? " but that was an appeal to my 
courage. For the rest, I have known many sweet and 
happy friendships — some very sweet for the short time 
they lasted, but very dear because of, the happy fidelity 
which these constant hearts showed me. But sweet and 
happy as they have been, this one friendship of which I 
have written was much greater than all ; for it was a friend- 
ship which unflinchingly sought my welfare. It taught 
me to know myself ; to perceive weaknesses which might 
have been concealed from me. It has plunged me into 
fear as it showed me the tenacity with which evil things 
clung to me, or the irresolution with which I clung to 
things which were good. It depressed me with self-know- 
ledge. It never despaired of me, though I might well have 
despaired of myself. And perhaps above all, it stood beside 
me in sorrow, in joy, in depression and in exaltation. Its 
loyal constancy : its silent lovingness : its quiet insistence 
that I should still go on, even when weary : its wonderful 
aloofness, and its more wonderful nearness : its words of 
counsel : its whispered encouragements : the music which 
it caused me to hear : the visions and experiences of love 
which it brought me : all these set this friendship above 
all others. 

I know that whatever may happen to other friendships, 
this friendship will not fail. There has been no demon- 
strativeness in it, though it has brought me times of 
superlative gladness — a gladness calm, peaceful and heart- 
sufficing. Its virtues have been its constancy, its tenderness 



THE GREATER FRIENDSHIP 313 

and its sanity. Thus it has had a character of its own, and 
it fills me with a confidence that I may rely upon it to the 
last ; and perhaps when that wondrous hour comes when 
the road leads down the last slope which all must follow, 
and I come near to the dark waters over which the evening 
mists lie thick, I shall find that true, faithful friend will be 
near at hand to give me a last word of cheer, and perhaps a 
first word of welcome when I set my foot upon the shore 
which is so far off and yet so near. 



INDEX 



Abbott, Mr., 66 
Ainger, Canon, 208 
Albany, Duke of, 205 
Alexandra, Queen, 240, 255-257 
Asquith, Rt. Hon. H. H., 243 

Baden, Grand Duke of, 271 
Balfour, Rt. Hon. A. J., 233, 243 
Bickersteth, Dr., 157 
Bonar, Horatius, 189 
Boulanger, General, 268 
Boyd, Dean, 180 et seq. 

, Miss, 182, 186 

, William, 221 

Boyd Carpenter, Miss Annie, 65 

, Archibald, 67 

, Henry, 67 

, Miss Jessie, 63 

, Miss Minnie, 63 

, Mrs., 35 et seq., 47 et seq., 60 

et seq. 

, Mrs. Matilda, 76 et seq., 148, 

155, 213 
Brodrick, Canon, 155 
Bunsen, Chevalier, 193 
Burgon, Dean, 143 
Burke, 259 

Cambon, M. Jules, 292 
Carlisle, Earl of, 28 
Carpenter, Archibald, 71 

, Henry, 18 et seq., 25 et seq. 

, Rev. Henry, 14 et seq. 

, Mrs. Hester, 14 et seq., 62, 64 

, Robert, 18 

, Dr. W. B., 238 

Chamberlain, Houston, 272, 273, 
275 

, Rt. Hon. Joseph, 216 

Churchill, Lord, 269 
Clyde, Lord, 223, 229, 230 
Connaught, Prince Arthur of, 269 



Consort, The Prince, 192, 235-237 
248 

Cook, James Parsons, 12 
Crewe, Lord, 242 

Crown Prince of Germany, 290, 293 

Dalzell, Miss, 195 
Dante, 36, 59 
Davey, 132 et seq. 
Davidson, Archbishop, 286 
Demolins, M., 258 
Dixon, Mr., 214 
Drury, Bishop, 157 
Dryander, Dr., 271 
Durham, Dean of, 179 

Edward VII, King, 239 et seq., 280, 
281 

Farmer, Henry, 128, 129 
Frederic, Empress, 279 
Frederic I, 271 
Frederic William II, 271 
Fraser, J3ishop, 122 

Gerando, 190 

Germany, Empress of, 274, 276 
Gladstone, Rt. Hon. W. E., 229 
Goodwin, Bishop Harvey, 122, 124 
Gordon, General, 227 et seq. 
Goschen, Lord, 237 
Graham, Bishop of Chester, 38 

Hansard, Rev. Septimus, 238 
Hare, Archdeacon, 191 
Harland and Wolff, 154 
Harrison, Frederick, 179, 199 
Hartington, Lord, 229 
Harvey, Canon, 66 
Herder, 249 

Higginson, Sir George, 253 
Hill, Bishop Rowley, 122, 123 



315 



316 



INDEX 



Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 31 
Hook, Dr., 191 

Italy, King of, 268 

Jackson, Charles, 183 
James, Henry, 237 

Kaiser, The (see William, Emperor) 
Kant, 275 
Knollys, Lord, 268 
Kritzinger, Dr., 271 

Lansdowne, Lord, 242, 247 
Lascelles, Sir Frank, 276 
Lawson, Mrs., 2 
Lightfoot, Bishop, 122 
Lunn, Messrs., 151 
Luther, Martin, 191 

MacLaren, Ian (Rev. John Watson), 

234, 235 
MacNeill, Duncan, 223 

, Sir John, 224, 226 

Maitland, Sir Peregrine, 193 
Mary Ann, 5, 7, 8, 9 
Maurice, Colonel, 213 
Millwright, Mr., 137 et seq. 
Money, Canon, 179, 180 
Mount-Temple, Lord, 235 

Newton, Sir Isaac, 138 

Oxford, Bishop of, 196, 197 

Pagildeafilda, 15 et seq., 22 
Palmer, Dr. William, 12 
Palmerston, Lord, 235 
Peers, Rev. William H., 45, 49, 76 

, Mrs., 76 

Pichon, M. Stephen, 291 
Pope Leo IX., 268 
Portugal,, King of, 236 
Prothero, Canon, 266 

RatclifT, Colonel, 204, 205 
Reed, Mr., 146 



Rhodes, Rt. Hon. Cecil, 253, 254 
Riddell, Lady Frances, 49 
Roberts, Lord, 233, 234 
Robertson, F. W., 179 et seq. 
Roche, James Jeffrey, 32 
Rosebery, Lord, 229, 243 
Ryland, John, 214 
Ryle, Bishop, 122 

Saxe, Marshal, 83 
Schleiermacher, 190 
Serret, Lieut. -Colonel, 291 
Shorthouse, J. H., 204 et seq. 

, Mrs., 204 

Sims, G. R., 57 

Singleton, Mrs., 47 

Smith, Father, 95 

Stanley, Dean, 206 

Stewart, Rev. David Dale, 49, 66 

Strafford, Lord, 221 

Taine, 249 

Tauler, John, 83 

Temple, Archbishop, 127 et seq. 

Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 188, 189 

Thomson, Archbishop, 122, 124 

Tucker, Mr., 190 

Tulloch, Colonel, 224 

Verdi, 254 

Victoria, Queen, 205, 229, 236, 240, 
242, 248, 266, 289 

Waldstein, Professor Sir Charles, 
257 

Ward, William, 191 
Welland, Shepherd, 49 

, Bishop, 49, 152, 153 

Whitehead, Taylor, 46 
Wilberforce, Bishop Ernest, 122 
William, Emperor of Germany, 263 

et seq. 
Windthorst, 268 
Wolseley, Lord, 229-231 
Wyndham, Captain, 269 

Zecharias, Admiral, 271 



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